by Cathy Byrd
— Dr. Wayne W. Dyer
As The Boy Who Knew Too Much teaches us, it is important to never brush off or doubt these remembrances that flow out of the mouths of young children, and to keep in mind the famous observation of Mark Twain: “It ain’t what you don’t know that gets you into trouble. It’s what you know for sure that just ain’t so.”
That said, I think Mark Twain would have loved this book. I do, and I am confident you will too. As incredible as Cathy’s story sometimes seems, it is all true; if you allow it, it has the potential to reawaken in you an appreciation of the magical mystery of life and what a grand adventure it is—full of things we may never fully understand and can only marvel and wonder at.
And now I invite you to sit back, relax, and enjoy Cathy’s amazing and inspiring story.
— Jack Canfield
Co-creator of the #1 New York Times best-selling Chicken Soup for the Soul® series
INTRODUCTION
“Kids say the darndest things!” was the byline for Art Linkletter’s House Party, a television show popular in the 1960s. Given that one of the gifts of childhood is a robust imagination, Art’s show displayed a steady flow of insightful and often hilarious material over decades.
It can be easy to dismiss what comes out of the mouths of babes, but paying more thoughtful attention to those “darndest things” can sometimes reveal innocent wisdom under the surface. The fascinating story you are about to read is like many similar stories known personally to families around the world. Most have kept such stories private in order to avoid ridicule in our modern society. This story recounts the past-life memories of a young child, Christian Haupt, which invokes the surprising possibility that we live more than one lifetime here on earth. “Surprising,” though, is a relative term, for many of the world’s great faiths are open to the possibility of reincarnation.
As a neurosurgeon, I’ve spent my career studying the brain, mind, and consciousness. At age 54, I thought I was close to some understanding of their relationship with one another. That is, until November 2008, when my entire worldview was suddenly and unexpectedly thrown asunder after a weeklong coma due to severe bacterial meningitis, from which my doctors did not expect any chance of recovery.
Inexplicably, I was blessed with a full recovery over several months but found that I had to reconsider everything I thought I knew about the brain’s relation to consciousness. I summarized my dilemma and its early resolution in the book Proof of Heaven, in which the extreme challenge of explaining the rich experience of my spiritual odyssey during coma could not be based on the physical workings of the brain alone. Over the years (as shared in my second book, The Map of Heaven), it has become clear that the entire scientific community is going through a similar challenge in understanding whether any facet of our awareness continues following the death of the physical body. Consciousness seems to be a primary substance of the universe that leads to the emergence of all of reality witnessed as the physical realm.
Of crucial importance in our scientific era is the fact that our emerging views of the nature of consciousness not only allow for the possibility of reincarnation, they actually imply that reincarnation offers the greatest explanatory potential for much of human experience. This is especially evident in some cases of child prodigies, including the subject of this book, Christian Haupt, who exhibited exceptional skills in baseball from a very early age. Reincarnation might also explain cases of exceptional genius, such as the prolific childhood composer Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart and the world-class mathematician Snrinivasa Ramanujan, among others.
Although some might summarily dismiss this as a story firmly entrenched in the “supernatural,” our modern scientific investigations into the nature of consciousness, including past-life memories in children, suggest instead that it is simply our understanding of the natural world that is in need of revision. The natural order of things increasingly appears to be one in which consciousness is the “creator and governor” of this realm, as was so eloquently stated by Sir James Jeans in his musings over the mysterious facts emerging from experiments in quantum mechanics about the fundamental nature of reality.
Families are occasionally surprised or confused when young children, often just beginning to form words, begin talking about events that have nothing to do with their current reality. They report dreams of situations and scenes that seem quite foreign. Case studies reveal that specific events are spoken of or acted out in what may appear to be a game of pretense, but the child insists it is real. Some children declare they have different parents or live in another location, often with emotional intensity that cannot be ignored. While some parents dismiss such claims, others (like Christian’s mother, Cathy) pay attention and search for explanations.
Courageous scientists at the University of Virginia (UVA) School of Medicine have been studying cases like Christian’s since 1967 when Dr. Ian Stevenson, then chairman of Psychiatry at UVA, founded the Division of Perceptual Studies (DOPS) there. Over the past fifty years, the DOPS has investigated and documented over 2,500 cases of children who recall past lives. This work has recently been carried forward by Dr. Jim Tucker, Director of DOPS, who you’ll see has been involved in the investigation of Christian’s case.
Scientists who investigate such cases meticulously interview the child about specific details of their memories and look to validate such information through other sources. They generally focus on those cases in which the details of a previous life remembered by the child could not have been learned through any typical means, especially through parents and other family members. The ideal age range for uncovering such memories extends from two to six years. The younger the child, the better, in order to minimize the chance that the child could have acquired the information through other exposure. Generally, after age eight such memories have often faded away.
Such investigations tend to avoid those involving memories of famous persons because of the heightened possibility for fraud given the widespread availability of information on such persons from books and Internet sources. Scientists prefer more anonymous cases in which crucial verifiable information supporting the reality of reported connections could not possibly have come to the child through normal means. Thus, even in such cases involving famous persons, they seek the more obscure facts that one could generally not come to know through standard sources. Amazingly, many such obscure facts are revealed throughout the story portrayed in The Boy Who Knew Too Much.
A significant gift of this book, beyond the powerful demonstration of the reality of past-life memories in children, is its support for the notion that reincarnation is about evolution of the soul group, rather than just of individual souls—we tend to reincarnate with other members of our soul group, seemingly to continue our ongoing soul lessons. This follows from the central theme of so many near-death experiences and death-bed visions concerning the appearance of the souls of departed loved ones around the time of a soul’s transition—that we are all in this together, and our connections with loved ones do not end with the death of the physical body. This bond of love is what brings us together again and again through various lifetimes.
Many will come to acknowledge the courage of Christian’s mother, Cathy Byrd, for her generous public sharing of this deeply personal family story, at some potential risk to her own (and her children’s) peace of mind due to the possibility of adverse responses. After all, we hold these kinds of beliefs close to our hearts, and finding them challenged arouses intense passions and reactions.
I suspect this book will have its most profound effect by providing permission for others to share similar experiences that suggest we are vastly greater than our physical bodies, and that our existence serves a purpose grander than we can currently imagine.
So, enjoy the extraordinary true story of young Christian Haupt and his mother, and the astonishing possibilities that it and similar stories imply for all of human existence. It opens the door to far more meaning and purpose in our lives,
woven into a rich tapestry bound by loving connections!
— Eben Alexander, M.D., neurosurgeon and author of Proof of Heaven and The Map of Heaven
CHAPTER ONE
BASEBALL FEVER
“Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting;
The Soul that rises with us, our life’s Star,
Hath had elsewhere its setting
And cometh from afar.”
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
Anything can happen in baseball.
I’ve been a fan of the game for exactly 3.5 years as the result of our six-year-old son’s uncanny affection for America’s favorite pastime. A story shared by countless Little League moms since the proverbial first pitch, I’m sure. Every mother wants to believe that her child will be that one in a million who makes it to the big leagues, but this is not a story about that. This is the story of a young boy who opened our eyes to the rich history of baseball in the 1920s and ’30s, and showed us all that what truly matters in this lifetime is the difference we make in the lives of others.
When our son, Christian Haupt, was five years old, we received a call from a representative of the Los Angeles Dodgers, requesting to come to our home and interview him about his baseball adventures. It may sound strange that a Major League Baseball team was interested in documenting the exploits of a boy who was barely old enough to play T-ball, but what was far more interesting than the five-minute documentary that aired on television is what our son had been telling us behind closed doors for the previous two years about having been a “tall baseball player” in another lifetime. This is the story we have shared only with our closest friends and family—until now.
The YouTube videos of our son, Christian, playing baseball had been viewed by over five million people by the time he reached his fifth birthday. However, our real journey began when the very first video we ever uploaded to YouTube happened to catch the eye of actor/comedian Adam Sandler. In a strange twist of fate, within days of uploading the YouTube video of our then two-year-old son hitting and throwing baseballs, we found ourselves on a plane to Boston to film Christian’s baseball-playing cameo role in the movie That’s My Boy. This serendipitous trip to Boston was a turning point for us in truly understanding the depth of our two-year-old son’s passion for baseball.
Christian’s love of the game began on the sidelines of his big sister, Charlotte’s, T-ball games when he was still in diapers. When he caught his first glimpse of a real Little League game, he studied the eight- and nine-year-old players with laser-like focus and spent countless hours every day imitating their moves. It was quite amusing to see a toddler winding up for a pitch with a big leg kick, or twirling his bat and then pounding it on home plate before swinging with all his might. Christian was happy to put on a display for anyone who was willing to watch, and when he was in baseball mode he preferred for us to call him Baseball Konrad—an alter ego he had created for himself using his middle name, Konrad. For the most part, it was an endearing hobby that brought us great joy, but there were moments when our patience was pushed to the limit.
Since the time our son could walk, he carried a small, wooden baseball bat with him wherever he went. By the age of two, he insisted on wearing baseball pants, a baseball jersey, and baseball cleats every day—even in the heat of summer. Every time Christian saw a white line in the sky, he excitedly pointed to the sky and said, “Look, Mommy! A baseline!” He took a bite out of a tortilla chip and said, “It looks like home plate!” He once saw a white, rectangle-shaped napkin on a bathroom floor and proclaimed, “That’s cool! A pitcher’s mound.” If life was a Rorschach test, Christian was seeing baseball.
My husband, Michael, and I had seen Charlotte go through a Disney princess phase as a toddler, but this was different. Our son, Christian, was different. He had no interest in toys or television, and rarely interacted with the other kids in our mommy-and-me classes, instead pulling me away to pitch balls to him on the playground while his classmates participated in normal two-year-old activities such as playing with bubbles and building block towers with their peers. Most disconcerting was the fact that our attempts to deter him from his singular focus on baseball just made him more insistent. Christian’s constant pleas for us to pitch balls to him every minute of the day, both inside and outside of our house, was downright exhausting for both of us. Most days we would play baseball with him morning, noon, and night, yet he still begged for more. Not a day went by that baseball was not on his mind. We once attempted to get him out of his baseball jersey and into a button-down shirt for a family portrait with his cousins, and he cried so hard that eventually both his red eyes and his baseball jersey made it into the photo. Michael and I were concerned that his passion for baseball might be borderline obsessive.
In the summer of 2011, Michael took a temporary consulting job for Lockheed Martin that required him to travel to Dallas/Fort Worth on a weekly basis. My job as a residential real estate agent allowed me the flexibility to work from home and bring my kids to my appointments if necessary, but this balancing act became more challenging with Michael out of town five days a week. Before dragging my kids with me to show homes, I would spend two to three hours each morning playing baseball with them at the local Little League fields. Regardless of how much time we spent at the fields, the ending to each outing was always the same—me carrying Christian to the car under my arm like a football while he kicked and screamed for “one more.” Following the struggle, he would inevitably collapse into a deep sleep within moments of being strapped into his car seat.
“Why do we keep doing this,” Charlotte frequently asked, during the short ride back to our house, “when we know that he is going to cry every time we leave?”
She was right. Why bother? But it was Christian’s undeniable passion when he was in the role of Baseball Konrad that kept me coming back for more.
Michael was in Dallas when my best friend of 15 years, Cinthia, invited us to be her guests at a Los Angeles Dodgers game. I doubt Michael would have chosen to join us even if he had been in town because he’d had a hard time adapting to Christian’s love of baseball, primarily because Michael had been born and raised in Germany, where baseball is basically nonexistent. Despite being a Southern California native, this would be my first outing to Dodger Stadium, or any Major League Baseball game, for that matter. Cinthia had established herself as a massage therapist to the stars in Los Angeles over the years, and her clients constantly gave her tickets to sporting matches, awards shows, and special events. From our late 20s to early 30s, Cinthia and I could be found at nearly every big sporting event, movie premiere, and concert in town. Although our social lives had slowed down considerably since then, the one thing that remained the same was that whenever we were together, fun seemed to follow us.
“Aunt Cinthia” had a knack for making Charlotte and Christian feel special. She had been at every significant event in their lives thus far, including their births and baptisms, so it was fitting she would be there for Christian’s initiation to Dodger Stadium. Little did we know at the time that the 50-year-old stadium in the heart of downtown Los Angeles would become our home away from home in the years to come. The first thing Cinthia did when we arrived at Dodger Stadium was take us to the souvenir shop to buy gifts for Charlotte and Christian. Charlotte swooned over the stuffed animals while Christian proudly posed for pictures in his Dodger uniform next to the life-size Dodger mannequins. Cinthia then escorted us to the very exclusive Dodger Stadium Club, where we watched the game and ate lunch at a table overlooking the field. Christian was completely mesmerized by the action on the field, and barely moved for the duration of the game, something completely uncharacteristic of a kid who rarely sat still. I had never seen him quite so serious, or speechless, in all his life, but he was clearly enjoying the experience.
Following the game Cinthia talked our way into a private restaurant at Dodger Stadium called the Dugout Club. While Cinthia treated Charlotte to a Shirley Temple, I found a vacant hallway w
here Christian could get out some energy by hitting foam balls with his brand-new 18-inch souvenir bat.
“Your little boy’s got quite the natural form as a lefty,” a kind man stopped to comment, handing Christian a game ball he had caught that day and pointing to the hallway behind us. “The Dodger players will be walking out of those doors behind you anytime now. I bet you can get one of them to sign that ball for you if you ask real nicely.”
Sure enough, the athletes started filing out of the door one by one to make their way to the elevator. A goodnatured Dodger player in his mid-20s, who we later found out was star outfielder Matt Kemp, stopped on his way out to give Christian a high five and sign the ball. This was undoubtedly the best day of Christian’s life to date, and he was officially hooked.
Christian and I made a return trip to Dodger Stadium a couple of weeks later for a tour of the stadium on a day when there was no game taking place. The highlights for Christian were sitting on the bench in the dugout where he had seen the Dodger players sitting, and rolling around on the field’s red dirt, which he had affectionately named “Dodger dirt.” When the tour guide gave him permission to practice his hitting and pitching on the dirt track surrounding the field, Christian was overjoyed.
By now I was an expert at pitching the tiny foam balls, so I managed to pitch to him and shoot a few video clips at the same time. As Christian whacked ball after ball into the stands with his little wooden bat, our tour companions egged him on with their cheers. He then asked me to switch to the role of catcher so he could practice his pitching skills.
“He’s shaking off the sign!” a woman from our tour group exclaimed.
“What do you mean, ‘shaking off the sign’?” I asked.