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A Simple Handshake


Alice C. Bateman & Clive S. Michie

Chapter Eleven

Howard sat with his feet propped up on the small stool that sat beneath his computer desk.   He lifted his coffee mug with his left hand, and took a small sip of the cooling liquid.  He was working on the Internet, busy making connections that would lead one mortal to another, making pairs that he needed to use to accomplish certain tasks.  He heaved a sigh.  No rest for the creative, no pause, little sleep.

But Howard was used to it by now.  It troubled him greatly, all the things he had to watch, and had no control over.  When he saw the bright spark of goodness, of oneness, in the world, he was always overjoyed, and blew gently on that spark until it became a flame.  Too often, a promising flicker was doused in a flood of substance abuse, or the lures of lust and greed.  Every incident he’d ever seen of this in his long, long stint as God paraded through his inner screen once again, making his eyes mist with unshed tears.  The sadness of being unable to change this directly, person by person, overwhelmed him again.

For a time, he held his head bowed, his hands covering his face, shoulders slumped.  His long wavy silver hair cascaded down his back, seeming to flow like water.   Then a tone sounded from his computer, a small chime, that told Howard two of the people he wanted to meet had just arrived online.  He stimulated a third party, one who knew both of the others, to introduce them.

Ah, it was done.  He’d check in from time to time and see how things were progressing.  These two had a lot of work to do together, a lot of life to do together.  He had to keep them far apart for now, they could do this segment of their work on their computers, and faster because they had one each.  And, if he could tell anything about human nature, they might have their hands on each other instead of their work if they were together in person.  In time they would be, it was already arranged, but neither of them knew of his plans at present.

That was another thing that hurt Howard.  The pain that humans went through, struggling to understand and analyze every little thing that happened in their lives.  If only they’d realize that they should just live each moment as it happens, that each moment is all there is.  Not agonize over past actions, or past mistreatment.

People expected Howard to be able to just fix anything.  In reality, it was the person’s own faith in the ability for the situation to be healed, or corrected, that caused the transformation sought.

Howard thought of a poem he’d implanted into the mind of a receptive writer.  He liked it very much, and hoped it was spreading his message.  He began to recite it in his mind.



{Jesus is a young man in the hierarchy of Heaven}


Who could sculpt a mountain with His Hand?

Who build a crystal goblet out of sand?

Who teach the oceans how to reach the shore?

If God retired, and left to us this land


This planet that He’s given us

He made with His Own Hands

As you would wield a hammer

Hold a paintbrush, tend your land


Yes, Jesus walked on water

Healed the sick and raised the dead

Where did the life flow come from

That he placed upon their Head?



It came from God the Father

Who just gets no respect

The one who made the water

On which our Jesus stepped



The One who sent the energy

That let our Jesus heal

The energy that’s here for us

If we would only feel



The Father is Eternal

He’s been here for a long time

He thinks we need reminding

Of a quiet, peaceful time



The time spent in the Garden

Before the snake appeared

And introduced the concepts

Of sin and lust and greed



Seducing a young woman

With charm and guile and sleaze

Kind of like a salesman

Always trying to please



Seducing now the whole wide world

With pornography and smut

Killing unborn babies

This gate, it must be shut



There is a gate that’s open

The gate into the lair

Of the ugly horned nameless one

The one who makes us swear



The one who, if you use his name

Will come into your space

Never, never say his name

Don’t call to him your face



It’s how he gathers power

From people calling him

It’s how he gathers power

By making people sin



And we, if we should speak his name

We do invite him in

To pull his pranks and mischief

Within our own domain



But he does not have any power

Over life or death

He merely can harass us

With pain and failing health



But if we use the energy

That God has given us

We can begin to help ourselves

If we in God would trust



Hold your left palm toward Heaven

As if to catch the rain

Gently cup your fingers

A power you will gain



The channelling of energy

Is easy and its quick

You believe in electricity

Although you can’t see it



Your right hand can distribute

The God’s Light that you gain

You can safely use it

To try to ease your pain



She still didn’t have a strong last verse for the poem.  He’d send her one soon, but he wasn’t sure what to say yet.  He laughed to himself.  God with writer’s block.  But this woman had the courage to sign herself God’s Pen, as he’d instructed her to.  In a world where they’d crucified Jesus, who’d said he was Howard’s son, as are all men, to say you were God’s Pen required courage.

Howard was proud of so many of his children, working quietly day by day, doing as much good as they could in the world, through their work, their families, and their inner energies.  So many of the people were conditioned to think and behave exactly alike now, though, Howard felt that he was losing the battle for souls.  His adversary controlled much of the mass communication prevalent on Earth. The automaton people who had been created by mass exposure to the same messages day after day, year after year, were easily swayed by a suggestion to do harm, or to do wrong.  Once that happened, winning them back to their innate state of goodness became very difficult.

He estimated that fully ninety percent of the population was now of the mass of unthinking, undoing people.  Ten percent of the population thought for the entire hundred percent, and of that ten percent, seven percent worked for the adversary.  The three percent left that had any control, and that were still aligned with Howard, were under an enormous amount of pressure, working against incredible odds.

Howard sat up straight, and took his bare feet down from the stool.  He yawned and stretched.  When he had to wear a human form for a while to be sociable, Howard understood why some of his children whined at the inconveniences of the unit.  He’d done his best, but he didn’t foresee all the pain that could be inflicted by the fallen one, or the diseases the devil would use to attack the human body.

Maybe people could relate to illness better because of the computer too.  It wasn’t Howard who’d designed the human container with physical failings; it was the adversary who planted viruses in the units, which spread through the genetic connections.

Howard was very, very careful never to use his opponent’s name.  He’d made that mistake long ago, a few times, and each time he’d said it, the devil himself had popped up in front of him, sneering.  Pointing out the small print in the contract they’d agreed to, the part that said that Howard had no right to interfere directly in the affairs of man, but that failed to invoke that same injunction against his foe.  If only he’d taken his creative abilities and worked in tandem with Howard, instead of always wanting to do things better, to be the best.  And when his powers hadn’t measured up, he’d begun to destroy what Howard created.  He’d had to be cast down.

So often, Howard had sat and wondered what things might have been like if he’d only found a way to heal the quarrel that had sprung up between them.  Why hadn’t he just created an entirely different world for the fallen angel to manipulate in his own manner?

Because he’d wanted to be able to observe what the angel he’d had to ban from his Home would do.  And Howard had promised not to interfere directly in the affairs of man – he hadn’t promised that he wouldn’t rearrange the planet if he decided he must.

It was time for Howard to do his long-range planning, the details part.  There were two options open, and these were both life and death options.  He could leave things as they stood, and man would, within the next fifty years, completely destroy the Earth and all the life she sustained.  Or, he could proceed with Plan B, and simply raise all the water levels of the Earth in the year 2003.  It was decision time, time to set things in motion, in whatever direction he decided to take.

He was not about to let man complete their wanton and shameless murder of the planet.  And all for something they called money, something that really had absolutely no meaning in the cosmic scheme of things.  The atrocities perpetrated in the name of money, not to mention in Howard’s own name, sickened him.

That’s where his guests today entered his planning.  These were two good men, firmly on his own side, who were capable of recognizing and utilizing the powers that Howard made available to all.  The poem was right, there was a channel available that people could tap into to heal each other and themselves.  He’d provided this when he’d seen what the devil was doing to his people.  But nobody had believed Jesus when he’d sent him to show them what they were capable of doing.  Instead, they’d decided to stand in awe, and worship the person of Jesus.

Howard shook his head.  What on Earth would it take to make people actually listen to him?  He hoped he was doing the right thing in calling on Dan and Eugene.  He’d pray, but who was God going to pray to?  He laughed inside at his own sense on humor.

That was another thing, people never seemed to appreciate his sense of humor. ‘Whine, whine, whine,’ he thought with a chuckle.  ‘Time to put on some Godlike robes instead of these sweatpants, and greet my guests.’

Chapter Twelve

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