A Light from the Darkness of Memory
I woke to feel myself stretched long, my arms above my head, nailed through the wrists; hands numb with cold and pain throbbing down into my arms and shoulders. My ankles were shattered, broken, the splinters of bone protruding through my skin. My breath came in ever shortening gasps as the blood filled up my lungs. I understood, dimly, even in those earliest days, that the swiftness of my death was a gift from one who had nothing else to give.
The first time I watched the holes in my wrists heal within seconds, leaving the bed splattered with blood. I washed the sheets and said nothing. Three days later it happened again. It happened over and over again.
I lived a divided life, the one drew me into a past I could not face, the other was no longer my own. I was changed.
I knew without knowing, saw, felt and sensed. I accepted the impossible, saying nothing to my family and friends. In this way I died again and again, at first frightened and alone and then eventually, with the fullness of time, filled with gladness.
While my life drained from me as if I was a cup being sipped, my eyes sought the figure which filled my mind and my spirit, who sustained and comforted me even in the moment of my death by His acceptance, His Gift, and His absolute Love.
In dying I wept with joy.
The visions started in small spurts, lengthening and strengthening in clarity until I could smell the stale bodies of the Roman soldiers, their leather armor, well worn, burnished with time and use, and feel their hands on me. I felt myself becoming someone else, knowing pain that was not mine and yet part of me.
Over and over I returned to experience that time; not understanding; afraid to discuss it with my family and friends, most of who were atheists. In secret I washed the blood from the sheets. The marks on my body, the stigmata of death and hope, healed within the span of a few breaths each time. I first feared I was insane, and then hoped it.
But with the passage of months I came to accept what was happening to me; to know that I was not losing my mind, but finding a precious, forgotten part of myself. The pain was not a punishment but a promise and surety of my identity and immortality.
The words and images of a time long gone became more real than my own life. I knew them as truth, they were the history of my people, The Children of God.
So much is distorted now, by time and by that change of perspective I have undergone. At first it was only in the quiet times, the early morning and in the dark abyss of the night's womb when I could remember that past in more than tiny flashes, impressions and images superimposed on my present life. But then I came to know that what was essential to me had never died and never could die. I accepted the Master I had served, discovering that I had never stopped serving Him. I found myself in that distant time, in the work that had engulfed my life and in the Love which had lit the world, for all time to come, from a place within. It was a work still undone and was now passing into other hands.
Something of what I had thought to be myself was gone. But I found that what was lost was not me but my illusions. What was found turned me towards a wholeness that I had not imagined possible.
This is our story. This is what I remembered. It flowed out of my mind life like a spring of remembering I could not stop. The woman who remembered merged with the person I was and there was no longer a division.
I knew what it was to be known and loved absolutely. I knew myself.
The darkened centuries have been filled and known. This is the telling. All that was remembered and forgotten; the sustaining of hope through the abyss of despair, the joining of wills that creation, love and humanity might have a continuing, all of these are here. It is the testament of Judeth, Jeremiah, John, Jeptha, Joab, Jacob and Jesus. The Seven, Voiced and speaking into the Light.