The Remebering

I still think about those hands sometimes.

That moment in the backseat of Grandma Shirley’s maroon car—my tiny body scooting across velvet, the smell of smoke in the air, the weight of something I couldn’t explain pressing into my awareness. I was just a child, but I was being called to remember. Not just a life, but a truth.

These aren’t my hands.

That’s what I thought then.

Now I understand—those weren’t just words. They were a message. A breadcrumb. A whisper from beyond time.

The was a game I would play in my bedroom. There would be this desperate scramble of fear and force. It w like receiving life or death proceedings. The weight of imagined bodies, the suffocating stillness at the end. That was never just imagination. That was a memory buried so deep, my soul had to turn it into play just to bring it up for air. But the moment I remembered the gas chambers, I knew, I had carried this pain before. I had been there. And I survived again, in this life, to tell the story.

It’s taken years, a lifetime really, to connect those fragments. But I’ve come to believe that none of it was random. That we, as souls, leave ourselves clues. Seeds. Dreams. Visions. Even strange little memories that don’t seem to belong.

All of it is the divine trying to break through our forgetting.

And now? I remember enough to know this:

I am more than this life.

We all are.

We are made of light. We are pieces of God. We are survivors of lifetimes.

We are the prayers and the miracles, all at once.

So if you’ve ever felt the past echo through your present…

If your spirit has ever jolted awake for a reason you can’t name…

If a child version of you once knew something too big for their body—

Don’t dismiss it.

You’re not broken.

You’re just remembering.