Ailish
Administrator Emerita
I have only shared with the innermost details of this life with one other person. It is interesting to note — that I recognize several people from that lifetime in my present one – and the revelations were somewhat startling -- at least to me! 
I will share a few memories and validations, from what I believe are Anabaptist times.
Quotes from my journal are in italics throughout:
First I found myself back in that little wooden house in Germany. I was small -- perhaps 5 years old and I was sitting in the corner. I was in someone's lap. The woman who held me was pregnant -- I could feel the bulge of her stomach, and had to sit sideways to avoid the bump. I knew -- I must be quiet. The old man was speaking and there was silence in the house. There were several families that lived there -- in the same house -- and it was mainly comprised of women and children. The older man seemed to be in charge of the house and younger men who came and went at all hours. All of the men had a lot of facial hair -- long beards, hats and very simple clothes. The women and children were also dressed simply -- all had head coverings and dark clothing.
Then we were running through the forest. The woman was holding my hand. There were several other people there running with us. The woman stopped and put her hands on her pregnant stomach. Someone said "Johanna." She was panting -- and seemed to be in pain. She sat on the ground. I was holding onto the dress on her back -- it was gripped in my hand. It was dark but there were flames of light in the trees and voices. Hands were grabbing me.
Now, I naturally assumed my mother’s name was Johanna – even though it didn't really "feel" right. When I wrote about her in my journal -- I used "Johanna (if that was her name)" In fact, she was calling out for my father, who had already been killed months before. His name was “Johann.” Later on -- I found out her name was actually Ilsa.
A tiny little wooden box. Just my parents together in the house. My mother is making clothes for the baby brother. My father is giving that baby a bath in the wooden tub. All of him is blue. I don't understand. I am confused. My father asks me to wash the baby's feet. The water is cold -- I pull my hand back. My mother says "Johann," and has tears steaming from her eyes. She is sewing and sewing and not looking at my father. The "Will of God" echoes in my ears.
My mother and I ended up – in some sort of jail. She was extremely pregnant, without a husband, and trying to keep me – her five-year-old, safe from the men who had killed her husband – simply for his religious beliefs.
We were in a dark place. There was some sort of straw on the floor. Men were coming in and taking people out. The woman picked me up and was carrying me out. The sunlight hurt my eyes. There were people gathered all around. A wooden block was in the middle of them. They took me from the woman's arms -- she was screaming. Two men were holding her. The were speaking about God. She was shaking her head and screaming, still holding her stomach -- reaching one hand out in front of her.
A man was holding me around the middle, my left arm pinned under him. Another man put my right hand on the wooden block. A third man was standing above -- he had an axe of sorts -- and he swung it down, cutting off the fingertips of my right hand.
I found validation in that memory:
My death, also follows the above pattern – it came soon after the incident with the fingers, although I am not too certain about the passage of time, it couldn’t have been that long.
Then we were outside at night. Men with torches were all around. Again -- they took me from my mother's arms. The man who was holding me -- was the pitt-faced man I saw before. My mama screamed my name "Christina." They took her and stood her on a platform -- a noose around her neck. She was still pregnant -- her belly was very large now. She had both arms wrapped around her stomach. She was crying. The men put me in the large tub of water. They were holding me under. I couldn't breathe. I felt -- it was a baptism of sorts -- but it went horribly wrong.
My mother is screaming. I am in the water. I am cold. My hand hurts. I cannot breathe. Each time they bring me to the surface I hear her more clearly. She is calling my name. I am choking. They hold me above the water for a few moments and I look her in the eyes. She is cradling her stomach, her arms around her unborn child, singing. I feel my mother's love and as I call her name "Mama", they push me under the water again.
I know Reynardine has written about her Anabaptist life here.
I am curious -- if anyone else recalls a life during the Anabaptist times? I'd love to share notes -- and I'll bet Reynardine would, too!
Aili
I will share a few memories and validations, from what I believe are Anabaptist times.
Quotes from my journal are in italics throughout:
First I found myself back in that little wooden house in Germany. I was small -- perhaps 5 years old and I was sitting in the corner. I was in someone's lap. The woman who held me was pregnant -- I could feel the bulge of her stomach, and had to sit sideways to avoid the bump. I knew -- I must be quiet. The old man was speaking and there was silence in the house. There were several families that lived there -- in the same house -- and it was mainly comprised of women and children. The older man seemed to be in charge of the house and younger men who came and went at all hours. All of the men had a lot of facial hair -- long beards, hats and very simple clothes. The women and children were also dressed simply -- all had head coverings and dark clothing.
Then we were running through the forest. The woman was holding my hand. There were several other people there running with us. The woman stopped and put her hands on her pregnant stomach. Someone said "Johanna." She was panting -- and seemed to be in pain. She sat on the ground. I was holding onto the dress on her back -- it was gripped in my hand. It was dark but there were flames of light in the trees and voices. Hands were grabbing me.
Now, I naturally assumed my mother’s name was Johanna – even though it didn't really "feel" right. When I wrote about her in my journal -- I used "Johanna (if that was her name)" In fact, she was calling out for my father, who had already been killed months before. His name was “Johann.” Later on -- I found out her name was actually Ilsa.
A tiny little wooden box. Just my parents together in the house. My mother is making clothes for the baby brother. My father is giving that baby a bath in the wooden tub. All of him is blue. I don't understand. I am confused. My father asks me to wash the baby's feet. The water is cold -- I pull my hand back. My mother says "Johann," and has tears steaming from her eyes. She is sewing and sewing and not looking at my father. The "Will of God" echoes in my ears.
My mother and I ended up – in some sort of jail. She was extremely pregnant, without a husband, and trying to keep me – her five-year-old, safe from the men who had killed her husband – simply for his religious beliefs.
We were in a dark place. There was some sort of straw on the floor. Men were coming in and taking people out. The woman picked me up and was carrying me out. The sunlight hurt my eyes. There were people gathered all around. A wooden block was in the middle of them. They took me from the woman's arms -- she was screaming. Two men were holding her. The were speaking about God. She was shaking her head and screaming, still holding her stomach -- reaching one hand out in front of her.
A man was holding me around the middle, my left arm pinned under him. Another man put my right hand on the wooden block. A third man was standing above -- he had an axe of sorts -- and he swung it down, cutting off the fingertips of my right hand.
I found validation in that memory:
My death, also follows the above pattern – it came soon after the incident with the fingers, although I am not too certain about the passage of time, it couldn’t have been that long.
Then we were outside at night. Men with torches were all around. Again -- they took me from my mother's arms. The man who was holding me -- was the pitt-faced man I saw before. My mama screamed my name "Christina." They took her and stood her on a platform -- a noose around her neck. She was still pregnant -- her belly was very large now. She had both arms wrapped around her stomach. She was crying. The men put me in the large tub of water. They were holding me under. I couldn't breathe. I felt -- it was a baptism of sorts -- but it went horribly wrong.
My mother is screaming. I am in the water. I am cold. My hand hurts. I cannot breathe. Each time they bring me to the surface I hear her more clearly. She is calling my name. I am choking. They hold me above the water for a few moments and I look her in the eyes. She is cradling her stomach, her arms around her unborn child, singing. I feel my mother's love and as I call her name "Mama", they push me under the water again.
I know Reynardine has written about her Anabaptist life here.
I am curious -- if anyone else recalls a life during the Anabaptist times? I'd love to share notes -- and I'll bet Reynardine would, too!
Aili
Whoooa!
