In July of 1996, we had been living in Loleta, California in a 104-year-old house on two acres. On one occasion, a young man in his 20s came to the door, said he once lived in the home with his parents and younger sister. He said his parents would have friends over and they would draw a pentagram in front of the fireplace, sit around it and party. I am only mentioning this because everything about Loleta, though beautiful, always gave me the feeling that a dark cloud constantly hung over it. My husband became very distant while we lived there.
A mile down from us was a Weyot Indian Reservation. I used to pick up the children at the reservation on Wednesday nights for Awanas (meaning "Approved Workers Are Not Ashamed" (of the word of God). The Sunday before we were to move from there to Prescott, Arizona, the church was having a goodbye party for our family. We had a potluck and all the church had left, except for the pastor and his wife, a local cattleman/fireman/asst. pastor and our family. We were in a circle holding hands and praying.
After the prayer, I decided to take a plate to my car and then go back and say my final goodbyes, for we were to move in two days. As I descended the wooden steps (four of them, with handrails) the feeling of hands grabbed me on each side of my arms, turned me around, facing the group and my family, and threw me at least 25 feet, over grass, a sidewalk, a gravel road and slammed me down at the outer edge of the gravel road.
The circle of people all saw what happened, then rushed to my aid. Before they reached me, blood came out from the back of my head in a pool. They all surrounded me and prayed instantly for my well being. Though unconscious for a moment, I awoke and told them the amount of force that I had felt grab my arms, turn me around, throw me and then slam me onto the gravel on my back. Everyone was in awe.
After spending five hours in the hospital, I was released and immediately upon arrival at home, started packing the house and loading the truck. I had so much energy, yet absolutely no pain. The next morning, feathered purple bruises were on both arms as if gripped by two hands on each arm. Not really fingerprint marks, but feathered. We moved two days later, I drove one of the cars all the way by myself, got lost from my family and they then found me two towns ahead of where they saw me pull off. (No cell phones then). We reached Prescott, unpacked the 24-foot truck upon arrival, set up the house completely and never once did I feel any pain anywhere.
I know what happened, but not why it happened.