Cruising Chaos

By Star Seed and Ursula Stevens

The true story of an Astrologist's Life Behind the Scenes with Washington's Power Players.  Born and bred in Bremerhaven, a port city in northern Germany, Ursula Stevens survived the Allied bombing of 1944, fought through a double liver transplant, and was summoned from the brink after a near-death experience. Here, Ursula shares her remarkable experiences first-hand.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Star Seed
• Release date: Oct 15, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215740927

Book preview

Germany

Birth

Imet God in the early morning hours of Friday, October 26, 1990. A few hours earlier, the doctors in Dallas' Baylor Medical Center had declared me clinically dead, following a failed liver transplant.

The first thing that I remembered was travelling through darkness. Not the traditional long tunnel with a divine light shining at the end; just a dark, pure, unspoiled void. I couldn't feel my body. In fact, I couldn't feel anything at all. I was weightless, floating through space. The sensation was comfortable. There was no fear, no worry. Only awe and a wish for some light.

Gradually, I became aware of beings in cloudy shapes hovering around me, happily, peacefully. The feeling of contentment they exuded was overpowering. It made me jealous, frankly. I wanted to stay there, to join them in their carefree strolls, to finally relax, rest.

To forget.

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The cosmos surrounding me seemed to be in perfect harmony. Everything was as it should be. At ease.

Then, the shapes began moving in increasingly dizzying speeds. Zip!

They carried me with them, swept around me, caressed my soul

with pure love and led me, with supernatural velocity, to what I believed was the center of the universe.

Zip!

Suddenly, a figure blocked my way. A young man with long curly hair and a beard. His features were soft, his eyes green blue and hassle filled with adoration and an uncompromising love for ... me? No, for humanity. The most astonishing thing about him, though, were his hands. A brilliant blue light glowed from his fingers, a hypnotic, healing light. I felt the glow shine on me, although I had no body. It warmed my being, soothed any fear I may have had. My mind, reeling over the sights I had just experienced, relaxed.

I knew who this was.

Then, I noticed two shapes lingering by His side. They were smoky and indistinct, but I recognized them as George Landrith and Mellie Malone, two dear, recently departed friends.

George had died, quite young, of a heart attack six years earlier. A funny, helpful, loyal friend, he had always been there for me when I needed him and we had worked together on numerous occasions. He was a Republican fundraiser in Washington, D.C., while I used to help out on the Democratic side, but our political differences only provided an endless source of amusement in our relationship.

Beside him was Mellie, looking wonderfully happy and healthy. She radiated happiness in a way she never did in life. Mellie had died

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very young and very painfully of cancer at 3:30 a.m. on New Year's Day, 1990. I thought to myself how incredible it was she had been healed and had found happiness at last. Her aura of contentment affected the very atmosphere, brightening the darkness around us.

Mellie, what are you doing here? I asked.

I am here to help you cross over, she answered.

George remained silent. Although he didn't speak, it seemed as

if Mellie was doing the talking for both of them. I tried to approach them, touch them, but God stepped in the way.

Slyly, I attempted to squeeze past Him, when He finally spoke. You cannot join them, He said.

No, I thought, I have to, this is where I belong, here, in the love,

the kindness.

"You cannot join them because you are going back. Your work

on Earth is not finished yet. You have a mission."

Dizzying visions of me leading the Israelites into the promised

land suddenly danced in my head.

But I want to stay here, please, I whined, indicating to my two

friends. The brightness and peace beckoned to me. What did I care about missions on the Earth? The tranquility overwhelmed me once again. I couldn't, wouldn't part with it!

You have a mission, He repeated. You are a teacher.

For a moment, I questioned God's sanity. But I had never taught a thing in my life! Could this just be a case of cosmic mistaken identity?

As if He had read my thoughts, God smiled for the first time and approached me.

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You shall help your fellow human beings by teaching astrology as no one else before you. You will work with them and show them their high potential. But you must first overcome your fear and pain. You must make that happen on your own.

That's really not much of a reason for me to go back, I told Him, wondering if this was the supreme being's idea of a joke.

I am taking you back, He repeated. You have never known happiness. You were never loved the way you deserved to be loved.

You were never loved. That sounded strange to me. I thought I had led a happy life, had loved, been loved. I had been around and done quite a lot. I pleaded with Him to let me stay there, in Paradise, Valhalla, whatever you want to call it. He raised his hand in a gesture that commanded instant silence and then made me a promise.

Ursula, you will find happiness on Earth and you will never suffer again till the end of your days.

Now that seemed like a fair bargain and good enough reason to come back.

God took my hand softly and led me through the vast darkness back to my hospital room. We hovered over my sick body, lying strapped down on the hospital bed. Mellie and George were also there, standing side by side next to my physical being. There was no one else in the room.

I looked down at my own pitifully helpless body and fear swept over me. Gently, I squeezed God's hand.

God, if you don't help me I shall surely die.

He turned toward me and said, You will not die. We still have time.

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It was the way He said We, that calmed me down. I felt as if He were suffering with me, sharing my pain. All my life I had been very religious and had strong faith in God. Now, it seemed that all that faith was being rewarded.

We waited for a very long time. Nothing happened. Needless to say, I got very nervous again. I tapped God on the shoulder.

Shouldn't we be doing something?

He reassured me, You will not die. We still have time.

That calmed me down again and I felt comfortable and safe.

Mellie and George were still standing there. I knew that as long as they were not coming closer to me I would not be crossing over.

Then nothing happened for a long, long time. I've often wondered if this could have been the period between my first liver transplant operation that failed and my second operation. I suppose I will never know for sure.

Then the scene dissolved, as if in a movie, to an operating room. There were many doctors and nurses looking down at my body. I noticed the face of one surgeon in particular. Despite his mask I later recognized him as Dr. Goran Klintmalm, who actually performed the second operation on me. I remember a peculiar gold chain hanging around his neck with two wedding bands dangling from it.

Suddenly, I saw the brightest light radiating from God's heart. It swept over and around me, touching the very depths of my soul, resonating like music, caressing my being like my mother's touch. It was the blue of Nordic eyes and Mediterranean waters and it began healing my sick body.

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It is time. Now, I am going to help you, He said, as we swept down to the operating table. God stood next to the surgeon and guided his hand over my stomach while still talking to me.

We must be careful not to miss a millimeter, He said.

The surgeon's scalpel sliced through my body. That part of me that was hovering beside God, felt the cold blade tear my flesh,

opening me up, revealing my innermost secrets to the world. Lightning surrounded us. Energy, bolts of power, the power of

love filled the room.

It is the energy of the universe, He said. "Your friends are

praying for you."

Sure enough, transparent figures began appearing by my

sickbed, watching the surgeon, observing the operation. They were my living friends and relatives, my mother, my sister, my brothers, all of them praying for me, halos of electricity circling above their heads, then spreading out into the cosmos. Their thought patterns turned into vibrations and shot sky-high like rockets, joining God, joining the blue heart-light.

Love.

Pure love. The greatest force in the universe.

The colors and sensations mesmerized me. I felt like a child,

watching my first Fourth of July celebration. The blue light pouring out of God, nurturing my sick form, swept me away like a river. My thoughts drifted to my mother. To my childhood.

And to another blue I had seen so long ago.

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1

Iwas two or three years old, walking with my mother through my hometown of Bremerhaven. It was around 1944 and my mother was looking at the sky, concerned. I followed her gaze.

Look mommy, there's a bird in the sky, I said.

High, high up and far, so far away. Nothing more than a speck. And the bird flew over our heads and laid an egg and the egg got bigger and bigger as it fell and I laughed and pointed. And the egg landed and the building across the street blew up and I fell, mommy over me, screaming.

***

The coastal city of Bremerhaven was among the hardest hit from Allied bombing during World War II. I was born in the middle of this crisis on November 4, 1941, the third child of Gertrude Weber and Ludwig Schulz. My sister Gerda was born in 1939, my brother Herbert in 1940, and my brother Klaus in 1942. All four of us were

Cruising Chaos

born one year apart like clockwork. Evidently, we were each conceived every time our father, an officer, came home on leave. Our father was killed in the war in August, 1944.

I remember Bremerhaven as a delicate porcelain doll, a beautiful harbor town teeming with life. The Nazis built most of their submarines there, so - needless to say - we were quite the target for Allied bombers. I grew up thinking the alarm siren was part of everyday life. It came to the point where the shrill scream announcing the coming of the B-25s didn't even startle me. My mother, who was a large, strong woman by any standard, would stick two children under each arm, grab two suitcases in each hand and have the two older children grab hold of each suitcase. With her clan securely around her, she would drag us from our humble fourth floor apartment to the basement.

Our terrified neighbors would already be stumbling down the staircase in nightgowns, pajamas, in slippers or barefoot (possibly just one slipper). Each one would have grabbed their most valuable possession on the way. There was Miss Igner with her jewel box, Mr. Schuster with his eyeglasses, Mr. Hefferman with his Bible, and old Mrs. Wunder with a picture of her son, a soldier with Rommel's Afrika Corps.

For a child who couldn't quite yet grasp the magnitude of war, all this fuss was actually fun. In the basement we would visit with our neighbors, tell stories, eat cheese sandwiches and play with Lobo, a small puppy owned by our night porter, Mr. Rugmann.

We would huddle around the building's boiler for warmth, cooking our meals with its hot water. Soup was usually the meal of

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the day and I remember how the steaming liquid shook in our wooden bowls every time a bomb fell outside.

During the day, we would explore the ruined buildings and gutted homes, finding magical treasures in the rubble. Music boxes, lace tablecloths, a box of chocolates in which all the candy had melted into one big block and - miracle of miracles - a china tea pot unbroken, pristine.

The melted bomb fragments became a form of currency among us street urchins, symbols of wealth and prestige. Occasionally, we would muster our courage and sneak into the sealed-off areas, where unexploded bombs were still waiting patiently to be disturbed or even just breathed on, by a foolish child.

Because of these sleeping giants, as we used to call them, the firemen and ambulance crews were afraid to enter the struck homes and remove the corpses. The first time we crept into one of these buildings, we nosed around the edges of the still-standing walls hoping to find paintings buried just underneath the dust. The adults seemed pleased whenever one of us would unearth a particularly pretty picture. They would blow off the dust with puckered red lips and gently, delicately wipe the frame with the cuff of their sleeve. Then they would nod, satisfied, give us bread with sugar and mumble among themselves about values and priceless works.

One particular unexploded bomb had fallen through all six floors of the house and landed in the basement. We all huddled around the hole on the first floor and stared at it, gleaming wickedly back at us like some evil, bloated swamp slug. It was evening and the sunset had bathed that skeleton of a building in the deepest crimson

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imaginable. After a while, staring at the bomb lost its novelty and we scattered through the ruins seeking our hidden treasures.

My target was a lovely oak wardrobe on the second floor. I tiptoed up the barely standing staircase, eased between two collapsed wooden beams into what I expect was once a bedroom, and stood before the wardrobe. It towered over me, at least five times my size. Finally, I turned the little copper key in its lock and swung the door open.

An old man wearing a nightgown and red sleeping cap was hanging upside down, among the coats and dresses.

My jaw dropped. I looked at the top of the wardrobe, saw the hole in the wall above. This man had fallen from the upper floor and crushed his skull through the oak cabinet. I realized all this in a second, and stood there, shocked and silent.

When I had finally recovered enough to scream, my cries were instantly obscured by the air raid sirens announcing a new attack. The universe has quite a dark sense of humor.

We fled through the cobbled streets, glancing frightfully up at the sky to see how far the planes were. The B-25s would part the clouds and swoop over our city, veritable angels of death. Occasionally, one of the aircraft would get caught by a spotlight and the plane's gigantic shadow would be cast on the overhead clouds, making the scene more biblical, the hope of escape completely laughable.

I remember cuddling against my mother as the drone of the B- 25s reached down to our little cellar. Then, the THUMP, THUMP, THUMP as the bombs shook Bremerhaven. Of course, the basement provided very little safety. If a bomb had actually hit our building

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our only hope would have been to be merely buried alive so that the rescue crews could eventually find us. Often the damaged building would collapse through the basement ceiling, crushing the tenants below. Even worse, the bomb could hit the heating pipes, causing the boiler in the basement to explode and literally cook the people inside.

Of course, the radio always made triumphant announcements of new victories at the front, great victories at sea, titanic victories in the air! According to the Ministry of Misinformation, on every Allied bombing run we shot down at least twelve enemy planes, a