In a place without time, where light had no source and music hummed in the stillness like memory, a soul hovered in quiet contemplation. It had no name, only a presence—luminous, curious, and full of longing. Around it stretched the vast waiting space between realms: the threshold between spirit and Earth.
This soul had been here before, countless times, in different forms—warrior, poet, mother, wanderer—but never quite like this. Each incarnation had added a thread to its tapestry, each life a lesson etched in vibration. And now, in February of 1974, the call had come again.
Below, Earth turned steadily beneath a clouded winter sky. The soul could feel the pull of gravity not in its body—there was none—but in its spirit. The planet buzzed with contradictions: pain and joy, creation and destruction, cruelty wrapped in compassion, love buried beneath fear. It was beautiful and brutal, warm and wild.
A voice, neither male nor female, both ancient and familiar, drifted through the ether.
“The time draws near. Will you go?”
The soul pulsed softly, unsure. “I don’t know. Things feel…different this time.”
“They are. The world is changing. Rapidly. But that’s why they need you.”
The soul watched a flickering thread of light descend into a hospital in Chicago. A mother labored, unaware of the presence watching her, yet deeply connected to it. She hummed a song under her breath, unaware of its ancient origin, one she had sung in another life. A lullaby from a forgotten tribe, reborn in her DNA.
“She’s afraid,” the soul whispered.
“Yes. But strong. As you will be.”
“But what if I forget everything again?” the soul asked. “What if I lose myself in all the noise?”
“You will forget. That is the way. But traces will remain—dreams, deja vu, a song that moves you without reason. These are your breadcrumbs back to yourself.”
The soul turned inward, feeling the soft heat of its purpose. It saw visions—of small hands building something that didn’t exist yet, of eyes that recognized truths others overlooked, of laughter in unlikely places. It saw the pain too—loneliness, moments of loss, heartbreak. A father who wouldn’t understand. A world that might not listen.
“But what will I do?” the soul asked. “What difference will I make?”
“You’ll live. That is enough. But if you choose—your words could spark revolutions in one heart at a time. You might plant seeds you never see bloom. Or you might simply be kind in a world that forgets to be.”
The soul pulsed brighter, tempted. Below, February snow began to fall. Nixon sat in the White House with secrets in his drawers. A child in Vietnam clutched a photograph. Somewhere, Stevie Wonder sang into a microphone, his voice echoing into eternity. It was a strange, electric time. Raw with potential.
“But I’m afraid,” the soul admitted.
“Fear is part of the journey. So is courage. And you will not go alone.”
The soul looked again toward the woman in the hospital bed, the woman who would be its first home. She squeezed someone’s hand—maybe a sister’s, maybe a nurse’s. A single tear rolled down her cheek, but her face shone with a fierce light. She was ready. And maybe, just maybe, so was the soul.
“I want to remember who I am,” it said.
“You will. In pieces. And when it matters.”
The soul paused on the threshold, one last breath of the eternal before the plunge.
And then, with the whisper of a star falling from the sky, it said:
“Yes.”
And descended.
Thank-you for reading.
Remember there are many paths back to God.
Follow your own path,
Brenda Marie
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