Unearthing a Death in Virginia

The answers to these questions came in the most unexpected way. I had gone on a vacation to Williamsburg, Virginia with a dear friend of mine. It was a pleasant trip which I undertook with a much enthusiasm. For I had always been fascinated by the history of the settling of Virginia by English colonists.

The last stop on our trip was Carter's Grove Plantation outside of Williamsburg. My friend, who loves going the scenic route, insisted that we travel there by the country road. That road wound for a few miles through beautiful wooded scenery. The closer we drew closer to Carter's Grove, the larger knot in my stomach got.

Reasons for not stopping there raced through my mind but none of them were good ones. Hating to spoil my friend's fun, I swallowed my inexplicable dread and in we went. Carter's Grove was a lovely place and my fears melted away.

My friend was fascinated by it and, with her usual charm, she instantly bonded with the tour guide. Having traveled with her many years, I knew this was my cue to leave so she could grill the guide about the house.

Relaxed, I walked down to the river. The guide told me that a long, abandoned English colony - Martin's Hundred - had been discovered there. Since I loved ruins, I could not wait to see it. Excitedly, I raced to the top of the hill overlooking the outline of the fort. It only took a moment for the scene to change.

Instead of mid afternoon, it was early morning with the sun just rising. Instead of a bare, modern reconstruction of the fort, I saw the complete settlement. The shore line instantly moved farther out. The buildings instead of being outlines were whole but were on fire. Smoke and screams filled the chilly air.

Then, suddenly, I stopped being the observer…

In an instant, I was down there... way back then. For many days, I had slept fully clothed for I knew this attack was coming. There was so much hatred between us and the native Indians. They had helped us survive harsh winters and low food supplies. In return, we had made no attempt to understand their ways. Being the chosen of God, we "naturally" assumed our civilization was superior.

Many times, I had tried to warn those in charge about all they were doing wrong.

• The fort was too close to the river, too open on all sides. It should have been built up on the hill (where Carter's Grove Plantation was later built).
• Weapons were stored centrally. Yet since as our settlement was so remote, we all should have carried weapons on us (it was "too much trouble").
• Houses were too close to the fort, allowing Indians to sneak up on us (which they did quite easily and it led to our eventual massacre).
• The guard posts were not placed where the lookouts could get the best view of anyone approaching (they were "surprised by the attack".)
• The lookouts had fallen asleep on watch several times but were never disciplined (they were "good buddies" of the camp commander).

But who was going to listen to me: a servant, a spinster, and worse, a woman? It was not like I could have whipped out my past life resume listing out my extensive military background. All I could do was prepare myself for the inevitable disaster I was helpless to stop. When the attack came, I raced out of my bed.

I instantly saw that the fort had been taken by surprise. I knew the only thing I could do was get help from one of the other settlements. Or, at least, warn them that the Indians had finally attacked. Studying the massacre in this life, I learned that settlements up and down the river had been stricken that day at the same time.

Unlike our English military commanders, the Indians had a strategy. Before I knew it, I was running up that hill with that Indian racing after me. Then I was on the ground and he was poised to plunge the knife into my heart. I looked into the blackness of his eyes and, suddenly, we both were in another time and place. It was more than a thousand years before and a half a world away...

The Secret Murder of a Barbarian

A torch flickered barely piercing the blackness of the cell. I could see it's light dimly reflected in the polished breastplate I wore. I was pacing impatiently back and forth in front of the prisoner. He was a dirty barbarian that time: not an Indian.

I could feel my fine red and gold linen cape brushing against my arms as I moved. Instantly, I knew I was a Roman soldier charged with interrogating this man. This barbarian had penetrated the outer wall and had slipped into the City unnoticed.

He had been caught after he had broken into the armory. His mission had been to steal as many weapons as he could and take them back to his barbarian friends waiting outside the walls. If he had not been so greedy, the barbarian might well have succeeded in doing so. As the Commander in charge of the new walls in the City of Constantine, this incident would tarnish - and maybe even end - my otherwise distinguished career in the Army.

I could feel my anger at this filthy captive filling my throat. In barely understandable Greek, this barbarian spoke of me, my troops, the Emperor, and the Roman Empire with unmistakable contempt. Deep inside, I knew much of what he said was the truth. That only increased my fury. How dare he say such things to me - "Didn't he know who I was? Worse, didn't he know that he was scum?"

My aide suggested that I simply kill the barbarian. That way no one else would ever know what really happened. My aide had caught the man and had made sure that no one had seen or had spoken to him except me. I can still hear my aide's words. "A single thrust of a sword and this will all be over".

At that moment, the third hour was being called outside the cell. If I did not go now, my sharp tongued wife would berate me for not being on time and I would insult my dinner guests. Worse, I would have to turn the barbarian over to the commander of the next shift and explain his presence.

Almost without thinking, I unsheathed my dagger. I thrust it through the barbarian's heart and he died instantly. But that was not the worst part. Only - in 20th century America - could I realize the full horror of what I had done that day.

Looking Back at Myself over the Bridge Across Time

When you stand on the bridge across time staring back at who you were, there is no space for lies or excuses. There is nowhere to hide from yourself. There is only the truth. Although the truth can set you free, it can also be very hard to accept.

When I, as the City Commander, killed the barbarian, I had not acted against the laws of the time. Under Roman law, I was within my rights to have him executed for stealing. Yet I did act against the law of the universe.

This universal law is easy to understand but hard to live. It is simply: to love always - to treat others the way that you would like to be treated.

I had killed a human being: a Divine spark of God. But in that Roman lifetime, I saw that barbarian as no better than dirt under my feet. My only thought as I plunged my dagger into his beating heart was the hope that his spattering blood would not stain my fine new cape. His death was no more than a momentary inconvenience to my otherwise perfect life. I had no compassion or remorse.

I never even took a moment to consider other options. I could have just given him the standard number of lashes for stealing. I could have spared his life and sent him back into the frontier as a warning to his "countrymen". That might have served my purpose better. After all, it might have made his friends think before breaching my precious walls. But I was too busy, too lazy, too worried about what others would think. I had a life to lead and this "filthy barbarian" was in my way.

Beyond asking my aide if he had disposed of the barbarian's body, I never gave the man another thought in that lifetime. What I had done did not diminish my enjoyment of my dinner, interfere with my getting a good's night sleep, or make me feel bad in any way. It was just easier for me to brush him like dirt off my tunic than to take the time to care. From the Roman commander's viewpoint, the barbarian was invading his home and he deserved exactly what he got.

Understanding the Lesson from the Death in Virginia

I wondered if the Indian thought, as he knelt over me, that I had invaded home and deserved what I was about to get. From his point of view, all English colonists, including me, a servant without a choice, were invaders. As I looked into his eyes, I could see that there was no compassion or remorse in them. And I knew that a karmic debt long overdue was about to be paid in true coin.

It seemed like an eternity as I watched the Indian plunge his knife into my heart. But my death was as quick and painless as the barbarian's had been.

Looking back on the incident with 20th century eyes, it seems ironic that my payment for heartlessness was to be fatally wounded in the heart. But that is how I learned in the final moment of that life the lessons of tolerance and compassion.

These were lessons that I am certain I could have learned in no other way… sometimes it takes an event as great as death to learn about life.

Just as the Roman commander could have let the barbarian go, the Indian could have let the woman settler go. She was no threat to him or his people - there was nothing she could have done to stop the attack. It would have been just as easy for the Indian to choose love over hate as it was for the Roman commander. Yet, for the Indian, it was as inconvenient to make that choice as it was for the Roman.

The choice had already been made. When the Roman soldier had killed the barbarian, the fate of the English settler was sealed. It was as if I, as the Roman commander, had plunged the dagger into my own heart, as the English settler. It was as if the barbarian and the Indian had never even existed at all.

How Exploration of Your Past Lives can Help You NOW

My experience as the Roman Commander and the English Settler illustrates the three primary practical benefits to be gained by exploring your own past lives.

1. Healing and Releasing Wounds and Bad Habits from the Past
2. Understanding WHY What Happens to You Happens to You
3. Discovering and Becoming Who You Really Are