When my son was two years old, and barely putting sentences together, he spent the night at his German grandparents' house. They liked to sit on the patio in the evening, and Opa would play the harmonica while Oma sang. On this particular night, my son started crying and told his grandparents that he needed to see me. This was unusual, since he often stayed there with them, and was always happy to go. They tried to calm him, but he just sobbed. Oma brought him home, and I was surprised to see my son at the door in his pajamas, sobbing. I took him from Oma, but he wouldn't stop crying, even though I rubbed his back and asked him to stop. I sat him down on a kitchen chair, and kneeling in front of him I asked him why he was crying.
He said, "I fell down a mountain and I lost you." I was really confused that this was why he would be crying, so I said, "What mountain? When were you on a mountain?" He seemed to be a bit perturbed that I didn't already know, and said, "I fell down a mountain and lost you a long time ago when I was big!" I asked, "A long time ago?" He replied, "Yes! When I was big!"
So I said, "What happened after you fell down?" He said, "I was hurt, and my friends came and took me up home, and I lost you." When he said "they took me up home," he made a wavy hand movement like he was going upwards. This produced a new round of intense sobbing.
So I took him off the chair, put him on my lap, and said, "If you did fall down a mountain, it was a long time ago, and now you are here, and so am I, and we are together again. So you didn't lose me at all." He suddenly stopped crying, as if he realized I was right. He sort of blinked and cleared, and then he nodded, and suddenly he was all right. I asked him if he wanted to go back with Oma now, and he said no, he wanted to stay with me.
I don't know who he was to me then. But I do know that as a child, I had a recurring dream of escaping some terror through the mountains, through very bad weather. Something very trying was happening. In these dreams, my heart would feel as if it were breaking, or squishing in my chest, and I would wake up screaming. I would have this dream all the time. I actually had to tell myself not to dream about it, because I was really tired of the terror. The dreams finally stopped when I was around eight years old.
I think that the German music, some familiar song, made my son remember that lifetime. I even thought maybe we were Jews escaping across the Alps. I actually looked into that possibility, but from what I read, that trek didn't sound all that dangerous. But who knows what could have happened in bad weather.
What I do know is that I am now here in Canada with my son, probably living the easiest life I have ever lived. And no one can tell me reincarnation doesn't happen.
Anything can trigger a past life memory in a young child: a sight, a sound, a smell, a familiar-looking place--anything. In this case, the sound of German music triggered a memory.
The mother responded in the best way to her son's experience: She listened to him, asked open-ended questions, and allowed him to tell her what happened, without judgment. She also assured her son that whatever happened was a long time ago, and that they were together again. Sometimes, with very young children, acknowledging the child's experience, and then clarifying what was past, and what is now present, works wonders. I have seen this happen again, and again.
I think it's amazing that the child's mother had recurring dreams that dove-tailed the child's memory. I believe this confirmed the reality of her own dreams and her son's memory. What a gift it is to know that even in the face of death and tragedy, souls can be re-united, as in this case.