James F. Twyman - Emissary of Love: The Psychic Children Speak to the World

Also by James F. Twyman

Emissary of Light: A Vision of Peace Portrait of the Master

Copyright 2002

by James F. Twyman

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this work in any form whatsoever, without permission in writing from the publisher, except for brief passages in connection with a review.

Cover design: KSO Design

Cover Photo: Digital Imagery Copyright 2002 PhotoDisc, Inc.

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Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2001099310

ISBN 1-57174-323-5

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3

Printed on acid-free paper in Canada

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This book is dedicated to my daughter, Angela, who has taught me some of the most essential lessons of my life.

Great truth often comes to us in the form of good stories. With all really good stories there is always a lingering question about the experiences related. Did they really happen? Did they occur in exactly the way they are said to have occurred? Has embellishment played a role in the power and attractiveness of the story? Does any of this matter, or is the wisdom that the story imparts what really matters?

Emissary of Love is a really good story. It has wonderful wisdom to impart. I am not surprised, for the person telling the story is a human being of great compassion and deep insight. His presence is always healing. His soul is always singing the song of love.

James Twyman is not your ordinary storyteller. He is a true sage, one who has found a way to make ancient truth sound new again. He has done so in his life through story and song, carrying messages of wonder and light to souls in search of both. As such, he is a bringer of the light, and an emissary of love.

For many years now James has traveled the world, carrying with him his musical instruments, singing songs of serenity in places of conflict. He has acquired a worldwide reputation as The Peace Troubadour, and is now constantly invited (begged is often a more accurate word) by the people of war-torn regions to travel to their land and bring his healing energy, to sing at a time of sorrow, to praise and raise the spirit at a time of its falling, to speak great Truth at a time when every false thought about humans and who they are is on display.

I have watched James do this and marveled at his energy and dedication. And I have had numerous occasions to work side by side with James on the same stage in front of an audience, and to witness his extraordinary effect on the mood of the moment. He can shift the energy in any space toward peace of mind and emergence of the soul's softest expression of love faster than anyone I have ever known.

I have a special nickname for Jimmy Twyman, which I use in the privacy of my own mind. I call him Abbara. As in abbara-cad-abbarah. Because he is like a magic spell. And his special magic, which is turning sadness into love, is just the trick right now for a world reeling in disbelief and anguish over man's inhumanity to man.

And now comes, from this special person, a special story. It is a story right out of James Twyman's personal experience. Or is it? Has he made it all up? Is it a figment of his imagination? Has he stretched the truth here and there? Or is it his exact experience, down to the last dotted i?

Like the age of a fascinating woman, that is a question one never asks a Master Storyteller. In either instance the question is irrelevant, and the wise one knows it.

No, no, the question is not, Could this really have happened? The question is, What can I learn from this? What treasure was this story placed in my hands to bring me?

Oh, yes, this story was placed in your hands. Make no mistake about that. You were meant to read it. Know this: every event is an instruction. We are given an opportunity by each moment in Life to remember something. Something about what we've always known, but have forgotten.

And every so often the world sends our way a Blessed Reminderer. This is usually a person who remembers a bit more about this or that than we do, and who has been chosen to remind us, so that we, too, may remember. These people give us back to ourselves.

James Twyman is such a person.

He knows. He remembers. He understands. And he spends a great deal of his life energy placing before willing and hungry souls his gift of remembrance.

So come, then, and dine on this food for the soul. Come, feast at the Table of the Tale. Take in this wonderful, enchanting, mystical story, and nourish your spirit.

You will be enriched, enlarged, and enlivened.

Neale Donald Walsch

Extraordinary events are often hidden within the wings of very ordinary moments, like rare birds that fly into your life without ever being noticed, as if you've forgotten that they don't belong in the city, or in the mountains, or wherever it is you find yourself on that particular day. But then one bird lands softly upon the sill outside your bedroom window, and you notice something that at first doesn't seem possible. A single breath passes through your lips and an instant later all the tumblers fall into place, and you find yourself considering things you never would have before. There is a gift carried upon those remarkable wings, unmentioned at first, but it changes your life forever. An ordinary bird, but a new world suddenly opens before you. Nothing will ever be the same again, and everyone sees it in your eyes.

I was sitting at the kitchen table eating my breakfast just as I do every morning when I happen to be home, which at last estimate is only around forty percent of the time. It was the end of January 2001, and I had just finished a month-long concert and lecture tour straight down the West Coast, from Seattle to California. Twenty-three gigs in twenty-five days, an ordinary month for a rock star but not for an author/musician known by only a handful of New-Age types. I needed a rest, and I was surprised that I was even awake at 9 A.M. The tour had been a grueling marathon of book signings, peace rallies and evening events. I was finally home, and it felt better than I thought it would.

That's when everything in my life changed.

I was eating a bowl of yogurt and granola, staring out the kitchen window at the birds feasting on the seeds someone poured into the St. Francis feeder. A spoon was balanced lightly in my left hand and I wasn't really paying attention to it, at least not then. All I really cared about were the sparrows that hopped around one another with light agility, tapping their beaks sharply upon the generous bowl St. Francis held in his ceramic hands, that and the coffee brewing on a nearby counter. It was all I had room for at the moment. I wasn't thinking about the tour, and I definitely wasn't thinking about what happened that night in Sausalito. (I had spent the last three days trying to wrap my head around that crazy night, then trying to forget it.) So there I was, relaxed and at home, watching the birds and eating my breakfast. I couldn't have been less prepared for what happened next.