Excerpt
I remember Palestine. I remember the beauty of the river Jordan in the spring lined with trees and lush green grass. I remember the songs of the birds as they flitted from branch to branch and took to the air in circles of feathers and chirping cries. I remember the warmth of the sun on my skin and the way the droning of the insects lent a lazy feeling to the warm afternoon. I remember the gentle breezes that stirred the treetops and softly blew my long hair about my face.
Yes, I remember Palestine.
I am not alone in this, for there are many of us on the planet at this time who have very vivid memories of the dusty roads of the countryside, the presence of Roman soldiers everywhere, and the tensions of a land occupied by a hostile force with an even more hostile Jewish puppet king.
Most of all, I remember shoulder length dark brown hair, large but gentle hands, and the deepest and clearest blue eyes that I have seen in any lifetime. I remember the intellect, the wisdom that poured forth from him, the timbre of his voice as he spoke the truth whether to one or to many. I recall the way he playfully growled as he chased the children in play and his loving concern as he listened to those asking for his help. I recall his joyful laugh and he laughed often. I remember his gentleness with the frail and the old, his strength and integrity, and the righteous anger that burst forth infrequently, mostly at the injustices of the political world.
Above all, I remember his warm hand on my cheek, the love in his eyes as he gazed into mine with a look that went right through my soul. I remember his voice, soft and deep as he spoke to me.
“Ah, my Beloved, my Magdalene.”
Yes, I remember Jeshua. The warmth of his love and the reality of our love and the mission we embarked upon have stayed with me these two thousand years no matter in what lifetime or circumstances I found myself. I do not know if I have had the depth of recall of that time in other lifetimes that I do in this one, but I know that I have not lived one time in all the years since Palestine when I did not yearn for his presence and mourn his absence from my side.
How did I know of the lifetime? How did the details filter through my memories and become the crystal clear picture that lives within my heart? It all started when I was but a child, in the postwar 1950’s of middle class America.
I have been drawn to the Palestine story all my life on a deep soul level. I can remember sitting in church gazing up at the portrait of Jesus as the Good Shepherd behind the altar and being lost in his eyes. I felt he was looking directly at me and had the feeling that there was something I was supposed to remember. Attending Lutheran/Missouri Synod parochial school for the first eight years of my academic life gave me a good background in the Christian Bible and the beliefs and teachings of the church. I listened to the stories from the Bible as read and interpreted by my teachers and the pastor and knew that there was a kernel of the truth, but the real truth, the underlying truth of the story that I needed to have confirmed for me, was never spoken. The Bible as written and selected by the church for reading by the masses did not contain the truth that I longed to find. I had no idea what it was that I needed to find, but I knew instinctively that I would not find it in organized religion.
A classmate threw the charge of “heretic” at me when I was in the sixth grade and began asking questions, sometimes probing questions, that could not be answered by the adults in charge who were supposed to know all the answers. An example was the conversation I had with the pastor during catechism class. I asked if the seven days of creation were the same twenty-four hour days that we currently use. He answered, “Of course!” which made no sense to me. How could anyone know how God keeps track of time, if S/He does? When I voiced that concern, he told me, “Because the Bible says so.” I knew there was no point in trying to find any open minds in that closed environment.
I can also remember hearing the story of Mary Magdalene for the first time. My teacher ascribed to her the role of the harlot caught in adultery and taken to be stoned. I actually bristled at that assumption and knew in the depths of my soul that the entire story was not as reported. My reaction made no sense to me at the time and would not for another 35 years.
As I matured, I started looking for answers in non-traditional places. I discovered the works of Arthur Ford, Edgar Cayce and Ruth Montgomery and recognized for the first time the Universal truths that I had always carried within my heart and soul but been unable to articulate. I read and studied all the esoteric and metaphysical information I could find for the next 25 years, accepting the information that resonated within and either rejecting outright or withholding judgment on information that did not feel quite right.
As my husband and I raised our family through the years, we discussed all the information we were reading and discovering and our children grew up with many of the beliefs and knowledge that we had worked so hard to discover. There were signs along the way that pointed me to the memories that would emerge, signs that I recognized only in hindsight.
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