Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Moving

It was foggy that day, with a slight drizzle.
Bored, I looked outside, then immediately stared into a box where my toys were, rummaging through it. A large moving truck stopped in front of the window, and I was immediately awake and dropped everything. My brothers ran past.
"We can ride in the front of the truck cab," my brother shouted excitedly to my other brother.
"I'm coming too," I yelled.
No, you're still too small. "You're coming with me," my mother said.
I don't know if I would have missed the hustle and bustle around the move with my dreaming, my busy social life, and peeking through the hole in the hedge. But that Saturday morning, I went with my mother to the other side of the village. She gave me a small bag with some toys in it. I think the intention was for me to feel like I was helping with the move that way, but I just found it all clumsy. The hard raffia bag bumped against my legs with every step. There was barely anything in it, and I understood perfectly well that that wouldn't make a difference, because the moving van had been packed. I thought it was so strange that everyone thought I wouldn't notice something like that.
"As if I don't understand that I have way more stuff than can fit in that bag," I muttered irritably with my thoughts to the man with the white beard behind me. I talked a lot to myself, but also to my 'invisible friends'.
"Don't keep walking backwards," my mother shouted, half dragging me along.
The man smiled. Unlike my mother, he found my rebellious traits rather amusing.
"Did you know that?" I asked him.
Yes, of course.
"Why couldn't you have just said that?"
"As if you're listening," he teased me with a smile.
I regularly alternated between saying 'you' and 'you' to the man with the white beard. I was raised to say 'you' formally, and I actually didn't know what to call this man.
On legs that were far too short, I tried to follow the large footsteps beside me. We moved to a different house, and I thought it was quite sudden. Feverishly, I started wondering where I had missed the point, because everyone else seemed to know it except me.
My mother pulled me along because I was wandering off again.
The house smelled strangely new. There was no hedge and no square; across from our house, there was only a cemetery with dull, gray colors that made me feel gloomy.
I looked around suspiciously, with my legs outstretched. I clutched the bag tightly in my arms and sighed deeply. There were a few chairs in the room, and I sat in the middle one. I stared in amazement at the brand new wallpaper, the glue of which was barely dry.
"You'll get your own little room," my mother tried to cheer me up.
I understood her well-intentioned attempts, but as the only girl, I already had my own room. I grumbled angrily to myself because it seemed boring to me. It was strangely quiet in the street.
With a sad face, I pulled the bag onto my lap. I found it boring. We used to live right in the middle of the village, but now I missed the butcher, my grandparents, and the hustle and bustle of the shops.
The first night was the worst. A new big bed and new wallpaper, and it smelled so strange.

Happy birthday

The first spring in the new house, I had the idea that everyone was happy and enthusiastic because of the joyous fact that it was almost my birthday. It wouldn't be long before it was May 3rd and I turned four years old.
On April 30th, all the flags were flying. I had no idea that Queen Juliana was celebrating her birthday that day and that Queen's Day was being celebrated. No, those flags were hanging there for me! Because everyone was just as happy as I was.
The birthday was a dream with plenty of presents, like a bubble set and a jump rope. The next day, I wanted to share with everyone that I had received so many gifts. The flags were already hanging out again. Half-mast, but I didn't notice because flags were flags.
There was hardly anyone on the streets, and the village seemed deserted. I put my party hat back on and put a garland around my neck. Until I met an old man. He leaned on a walking stick and said, shaking his head, "Girl, that can't be today; it's not a celebration but a sad, mournful day."
I lowered my head and adjusted to the man's sad glances and the village's quiet sadness. I took off my party hat, and the elastic band snapped painfully against my nose. When I got home, I sat against the outside wall, next to my oldest brother. "Is my birthday over now?" I asked disappointedly.
"Yes, yesterday," he replied.
The church bell tolled as I silently processed my grief. A wistful silence hung over the village.
"Why is everyone so sad?" I asked my brother. "Because they're all allowed to play with me. I have many toys now.
Maybe they're a little jealous. "Everyone will be happy again tomorrow, just you wait," he comforted me.
When I looked outside the next day, Liberation Day, May 5th, there were flags everyplace, and even the marching band went by. Everyone was cheerful. My brother was right.

Daisies

There was a road in front of our house, behind that road were trees, and behind those trees was the cemetery. The world was much too small for me, and I explored all the new things around me.
That summer, I went barefoot and in a dress, past the neighbors' garage, to the cemetery. There I crawled through a hole in the barbed wire and wriggled through the hedge behind it. Apparently, I was always curious about what was going on behind a hedge.
I had never been to the cemetery before and looked at the colorless, gray, and black stones from a black gravel path. I thot it was a kind of black and white world.
Likewise, I realized I should just try to cheer things up around here. I picked daisies that were growing between the trees along the path, and I talked to the tombstones. I knocked on it and asked if anyone was home. There was a gray stone with a barred gate. Looking back, they were my own great-grandparents on my mother's side, but I was afraid of the little fence, and I walked around it in a wide arc. I had a book with drawings of the story of Hansel and Gretel, where Hans was sticking his finger out through the bars of a little fence just like that.
Suddenly, I felt like I wasn't alone, and I immediately thot of Uncle Jan. My father once told me about his brother, who had passed away at the age of nineteen.
I had laid my flowers on the grass, and while I was belly dancing with my arms wide open in the place where there were no tombstones yet, I called out to the sky: "Uncle Jan, do you ever come here too?"
I wasn't even surprised when I felt that enormous warmth flowing through my body, a feeling of intense love. It was as if the sky burst open with sunlight. And I heard Uncle Jan, just like the man with the beard, say with his mind, "Will you pick your flowers for me?"
"Yes, of course I will," I shouted cheerfully.
I wanted to look up his tombstone, but I had to think hard for a moment because, after all, I couldn't read. I used to be able to read, I remembered, but when and where was that again? Now I didn't know where to put the daisies.
With short legs and quick steps, I hurried back home and took all the plastic cups out of the cupboard where Mother always poured the lemonade. Red, green, blue, white... I filled them with daisies and poured water into them from my watering can. Water was sloshing out of it from all sides with every step I took.
With my dress soaking wet by now, I shouted, "Uncle Jan, you have to say where you live now, and Grandpa too, because I can't read anymore."
Uncle Jan laughed and said, "I'll tell you where."
So I walked among the tombstones, and where my heart felt warm and the light became very bright, I placed my little cup of daisies.
I heard my name being called... They were looking for me, and no one knew where I was, so I crawled back through my newly discovered opening, where, of course, my dress got stuck again, so I had to yank it free first. Happily, I shouted that I had brought flowers for Uncle Jan and Grandpa. Together with my father, I went back to the cemetery through the broken barbed wire. To his great surprise, my little cups of daisies were placed on the correct headstones of Uncle Jan and my grandfather, neither of whom I had ever known.

Kindergarten

I had been going to school for a while now. First to kindergarten and then to the Roman Catholic primary school in the village. The kindergarten was next to the elementary school and was separated by a bike shed and the church path.
My brother pulled my arm and shouted that I needed to hurry up. He was supposed to take me to kindergarten. It was marble season, and he brought a bag full of shiny glass marbles, but also those old-fashioned clay marbles that I thought were the most beautiful. He was clearly happier to be rid of me when he met a friend who called out from a distance if he wanted to play marbles. I thought it was pretty good.
My father had taken a walk with my oldest brother and me past the kindergarten the previous Sunday and prepared me for the fact that I had to go to school the next day. We had looked through the windows. It was an unexpected surprise again, as usual, because I hadn't been thinking about having to go to school one day, and I wasn't very keen on giving up my freedom.
I wouldn't have had much trouble entertaining myself. I could spend hours looking for ladybugs under the hedge with a matchbox, and I always had so much work trying to figure out how old they were because I would count the spots on their wings.
My mother had given me instructions. We didn't have teachers, but nuns, whom you addressed as "Sister." You had to raise your hand if you wanted to ask a question or when you needed to go to the bathroom.
Full of confidence, I grabbed the first nun I saw by her habit. She took me under her wing because I had come alone. The sister told me I had to wear special slippers because you had to be quiet at school. It seemed like a disaster to me, and I anxiously wondered if I could handle it.
We got half an apple and half a Liga biscuit during the break. I didn't need the apple, but with the business blood in my veins, a legacy from my grandfather's DNA, I made a new deal every day and traded half my apple for half a Liga cookie.
In the evenings, I would often go to the office with my father for a little while. In a trash can, I found oblong brown boxes that looked like bars of chocolate. I couldn't read, but my father read the label, which said it contained pencil leads. My brain always worked. When I was unable to read yet, the other children in kindergarten couldn't either. I stuffed my pockets full of the now empty pencil lead boxes.
The next day at school, I sold the 'chocolate bars' to the unsuspecting fellow preschoolers for half Liga cookies. There, I was confronted for the first time with the fact that not everyone understood my humor, as some people got angry.
I quickly ran to the sandbank with my loot in my coat pocket, where I tried to understand the anger of the other preschoolers. I stared blankly ahead, my heart pounding wildly.
Not only that, but I felt homesick for that other world where I had lived. They were never angry with me there. It was a wonderful, relaxing gathering there, and we had fun, I vaguely remembered. The group I could still vaguely feel consisted of young men and women. We were all the same age there. Young, but not very young. We had been adults. They were my best friends, one of whom I had an exceptional bond with. I couldn't quite grasp the images anymore; I only remembered that we were standing by a bench laughing. I recognized them, but I couldn't quite remember who they were.
As I was raking in the sandbox, I felt the warmth and happiness in my heart rise again. The same feeling as when the bearded man was with me. I felt him standing right in front of me as I was sitting on the stone edge of the sandbox.
The sandbox was my favorite spot. I always took off my socks and shoes there to slide my feet through the sun-warmed sand. After that, I sifted buckets full of very soft white sand.

Homesickness

I said out loud that it was just as warm and soft as it had been 'there.' Surprised, a fellow kindergartner who had been following me and was sitting on the edge asked where 'there' was.
There, where I grew up, it was nice and light and warm. "It was in another country, where my boyfriend also lived," I said.
I had already forgotten about the other toddler because a bitter sadness overcame me. I was so homesick. A lump burned in my throat at the memory. As long as I didn't think about 'then,' everything was fine, but if I just slipped into my memories for a moment, my emotions would swing back and forth like a weather vane.
The other preschooler looked at me somewhat surprised when she saw tears welling up in my eyes.
"Does your boyfriend still live there?" she asked with interest.
I looked at her blankly. Didn't she understand then?
"I actually don't know," I said sadly. "I can't find him anywhere, but when I grow up, I'm going to look for him," I said, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.
"Is he your nephew?" the other preschooler asked curiously.
We were in a lively conversation, and apparently, my conversation partner didn't even find it that strange.
"Well," I said thoughtfully, "it's actually my twin brother, but we don't have the same mother. He's also my nephew, and he's also my friend, but I don't believe it's family.
I stared thoughtfully at my little bucket.
Then it became too much for her as well. She left with her bucket and looked back strangely one more time.
I continued shifting furiously because I wanted to feel with my bare feet and sink into my wonderful memories. The man with the white beard was standing opposite me. His gaze was full of compassion, and I looked up at him sadly. I missed my friends so much.
He lovingly stroked my hair. I woke up when the school bell rang.

Past lives

It became December, and Santa Claus was coming. A long line of children stood on the path in front of the bike shed, singing until the good saint would arrive. When I had to wait too long, I would always drift off into a kind of trance. It was a quiet and calm waiting, without thinking about anything. Then it usually happened that images appeared on my retina like lifelike color movies.
Actually, it got worse and worse at that time, but I didn't know those videos were my own memories from a past life.
A blackface character with large white eyes walked toward me, and an 'alarm bell' went off in my head. I 'heard' drumming and stomping feet, and I saw images of menacing men with painted bodies. They had white stripes under their eyes and those strange tassels under their knees. They stomped closer. Too afraid to scream, I stared wide-eyed, who was innocently trying to give me a handful of pepernoten.
Nailed to the ground, I heard those feet, with their swinging tassels, stomping harder and harder on the sandy ground, and I felt my hands bound behind my back. They sang a kind of monotonous, droning chant that swelled and became louder and louder, and louder. I woke up with a scream from my 'trance' when the elf grabbed my shoulder. My raw scream caused some mothers to run toward me, trying to calm me down.
When I finally calmed down a bit, I saw the man with the beard standing there, and I spontaneously started sobbing again. With a comforting look, he telepathically told me that I didn't need to be afraid now. I was startled by a memory. A reminder of the past, when I had a different life that I had almost forgotten but that had been preserved deep inside.
I understood immediately what he meant. Somehow, there had always been a "knowing." A truth I still recognized from somewhere. Even then, without ever having thought about it, I knew that the life I had now was just one of many.
The time for memories had arrived. I decided I'd rather not tell anyone, because the man had told me that people often didn't understand. I was still too young to have to explain everything to adults.
Every evening became a nightmare. I got scared, especially of the images where I kept falling off a horse. The images came in color when I was lying in bed. Whether my eyes were open or closed didn't matter, because the images kept coming as I calmed down.
Not only did I see the images, but as I was almost asleep, I literally felt myself falling meters down a large hole, horse and all. After that, I just kept walking as if nothing had happened. Sometimes I would fall four or five times an evening and then fall asleep.
I asked the man with the beard why I kept falling off the horse.
He told me again that they were pictures from another life I had already been to. They were memories that remained stored in your soul when you hadn't fully processed something yet.
I didn't find that really strange. I let everything wash over me without thinking. He said that I had been a steward in England with a friend.
"Stewards had to collect money from the farmers for the castle lord," he explained patiently. The farmers around the castle rarely saw the lord, but they did see the stewards, and hatred flared up among the villagers and farmers. You were with four stewards. Two had turned off toward the village, and you were on your way to the farmers, but were killed by the villagers," said the bearded man. You're reliving your own death from back then. Because you haven't processed it properly yet, it will come later.

Out of my body

Although it was all far removed from the time with the picture books, strangely enough, I found it a reasonable explanation for my images. I understood, just like I understood everything back then. After all, the man with the beard was like a father to me. I was like a little chick that had just hatched. He was the first person I had seen. That's why it was closest to me, closer than my earthly parents. He nurtured me spiritually, while my parents took on the physical task.
I also realized that I couldn't talk to anyone in my earthly surroundings about this. They wouldn't understand and would drag me from psychologist to psychologist, thereby disrupting a process that had been initiated from 'above'.
A feeling of 'waking up' arose.
Slowly, it dawned on me that not everyone had these kinds of images. For the first time, a kind of loneliness crept into me, because how did I fit into two worlds?
From a confident, happy six-year-old, a process began where I slowly transformed into a confused, insecure girl. The latter had more to do with my social environment, after I overheard words that weren't meant for my ears. I accidentally overheard them calling me a 'strange child.' Although I felt it wasn't meant to be mean, it deeply affects me.
I've always been forgiving. In the church, I prayed for them, even though I didn't like going there: 'God, forgive them, for they know not what they do.'
I just didn't quite understand what I was doing wrong in their eyes, because I participated in everything in the village. A little friend took the trouble to explain to me in our own childish way, 'You sometimes say strange things, and you sometimes act a bit weird.'
"Oh," I said, not understanding.
As I struggled to stop saying 'weird things,' I became a quiet girl with braids. To the outside world, I became a terrified, shy girl who didn't say another word. Meanwhile, my other developments continued. So suddenly there were evenings when I became a weightless 'ball.' I felt like everything started spinning, and I sank like a 'ball' with a heavy feeling toward my navel. I couldn't stop it, and very aware of what was happening, I slid down and exited my body somewhere near my navel. Then I could float through my little room. Again, I got used to it, and soon I found it completely normal and accepted it. I once tried to float toward the window, and I was absolutely terrified when I just went right through it.
I woke up normally again in the morning, apparently because I fell asleep during my busy nighttime activities. If I were a ball and rolled out of my belly, I could see my bearded guide most clearly.

His name on the wall

By then I was six years old and had learned some letters at school. Since then, the man has been trying to show me his name written in block letters on the wall. Unfortunately, it was a bit too early, although I already knew that an 'a' was a circle with a stick and a 'b' was a stick with a circle.
I was listening mainly to the sounds as he spoke his name aloud, but that was precisely what was confusing, because the man had been an English physicist. It's not that his profession interested me that much, but the fact that he pronounced his name in English was something I liked.
He showed me his name in black block letters: Oliver J. Lodge. When he said that in English, I heard the "Lodge" sound. I repeated this out loud, in my own language: zzz.
He didn't correct me because of the immense concentration I needed to stay in the trance with my mental power so that the letters wouldn't disappear. As soon as something broke my concentration, I couldn't hold the image.
He quietly repeated his name. Now I caught the sound of his middle initial: J. I repeated it again and said out loud: G.
I got tired from the intense concentration. I quickly went back to the first name because I had picked up the strongest sounds first. The letters became increasingly transparent and seemed to be dissolving.
I saw an O and an L. I hastily translated that into an "a," because an "a" was, after all, a circle with a stick.
"Don't forget the last name? Perhaps that will be more important later than the first name," the man remarked calmly.
Panicked, I went back to the last name. There I read a stick, the l, and a circle, the o. I already knew that one, because it was a b.
"Time is almost up, because I can't hold my concentration any longer either," the man admitted. I can't show you my name for much longer. Try to pick up a few more letters.
I quickly scanned the names. I quickly noticed that I had that stick in my own name too, but then it had a different meaning. I also knew the "a" and the "i" from my own name. It confused me so much, and I got so tired. I just randomly stuck everything together; after all, I was only six years old and a child who couldn't read yet.
"Djie-zzai-bel?" I spoke haltingly and hesitantly, although I found that a very peculiar name myself and realized I wasn't saying it correctly.
He shook his head.
"Jezaibel?" I tried again.
He shook his head again.
"No, it's not quite right, but you did your best." "Just call me that," he said.
"Shouldn't I remember your real name?" I asked uncertainly.
"You'll get to that when you're older," he said. "For now, just call me Jezaibel."
"Will you stay with me later when I'm grown up?" I asked excitedly.
"When we're done, I'm leaving again. But when you're older, I'll show you a piece of heaven. Before I went to heaven, I promised I would try to let people on Earth know that there is a heaven, but so far I haven't succeeded. We agreed that you would do that while you're here.
"Was that by the bench?" I asked in a childlike way because, after all, I was a child.
He smiled again.
I became so happy when he smiled at me. I would have much preferred to be with him, because then I felt closer to 'home'.
Jezebel caught my attention again.
I'm going to tell my stories through you. I will take you and show you the part of heaven where I am now. You're going to tell us about that; that's what we agreed back then."
I looked at him in surprise because I couldn't remember that at all.
"Why me?" I asked, hesitantly adding, "I can't read very well yet."
He smiled again.
"Because you were my daughter," he said.
I couldn't take it anymore.
"I already have a father here," I remarked.
That's right, you now have a different father who takes care of you, because I live here now. Back then, when I still lived in England, you were my daughter Lily.
"Silly Lilly," I giggled, because someone had called me that once and it turned out to be funny.
"Can we do that a bit quickly?" I asked practically. "Because I'd like to do some fun things later too, I think."
"I understand that," he said, "but that's not what I'm worried about. I'm worried about whether you can handle everything: people's lack of understanding, the mean comments."
Would it be ready when I'm already forty years old? "Then I'll be old," I asked cautiously, tentatively, as if it were a school assignment I had to finish on time.
"I think that's too fast," he said with a grimace, as if he already knew what difficulties I would face in life.
"Fifty?" I shouted as if I were at the market selling my wares.
He shook his head.
Sadly, I let my shoulders slump.
"It's going to be very difficult," he admitted softly. By that, I don't just mean our appointment, but also your own life. You will encounter everything, and you will lose yourself in it. That's how it's supposed to be, because those are learning processes. Every time that happens, you need to try to come back to yourself. When you lose yourself, you also lose contact with me.
I didn't understand what he meant.
"Wow," I just said.

Note

I now know what he meant. My promise was cruelly disrupted by a severe burnout after publishing my books. Luckily, I could carry myself with my humor. Although I try to clarify my out-of-body experiences with quantum physics due to Oliver J. Lodge's scientific approach, after my promise, I was overwhelmed by what Jezebel had already been afraid of during my youth: people wanted explanations, scientific evidence, and endless discussions.

It felt like I was being thrown to the wolves to provide evidence. They wanted earthly evidence. Eventually, Oliver J. Lodge's son, Raymond Lodge, helped me with that. I'll tell you about that later.
In any case, I wasn't prepared, ready, or armed for everything I encountered. That was also the reason I withdrew my books from sale. I had to save myself from the pit of depravity I had fallen into. Eventually, as I lost myself, I also lost contact with Oliver J. Lodge. Which is what happened.

Here are a few reasons why I withdrew my books from sale:

1. There were people who thought I had a crystal ball. I received questions about selling houses, divorces, and people who wanted to include me in their spiritual beliefs.
2. There were scientists who wanted to test me. I had to go sit in another room while I tried to read what was written on a note.
3. The First World War Association, founded by Sir Oliver J. Lodge, shrugged, 'There goes another one.'
4. The parapsychologists looked at me scornfully: "Do you really think Sir Oliver J. Lodge would choose a village girl from Friesland to deliver his important message?"
They laughed mockingly.
5. You have a childish way of writing.
6. You are the devil. You are not welcome in our church. (During a baptism)
7. You probably didn't hear the name Jezaibel correctly, because you're dealing with something dark. You probably mean the name Jezebel. He was a bad person.
8. I want to talk to you because I have a matter that only you can resolve.
9. If you write this kind of book, you are also obliged to engage in a discussion with us.

©2025 sylvialucia