I strongly believe that God speaks to us in many ways, and that God finds ways that we can best listen. Some of us need to be hit over the head (figuratively speaking, of course). Others of us need to be caught off guard. Dreams are big in the Bible, as a way of God getting through to some hard-headed people. I know some people dismiss dreams as just a psychological movie of what's going on in our heads and hearts. If we're anxious about something, we dream that we're naked on a school bus-- something like that. (I hate that one)
But in the Bible, God speaks to Joseph (of Genesis) in dreams, and uses those dreams to help others, to predict terrible things, help them prepare, and also to enlighten. Joseph is known to be a dreamer, but in a good sense. Dreams don't seem rational, of course, and we might dismiss someone as "just a dreamer." But what a sad world it would be if we lost the ability to dream.
It's in dreams, I believe, that we get to touch Eternity, if only for a moment.
God told the Joseph in the New Testament to get off his butt and accept Mary as his wife, even though she was pregnant and trying to convince him that it was the Holy Spirit, whatever THAT was! Apparently God was very convincing in this dream to Joseph, because God had to get through the guy's hurt pride. God also came to the wise men in a dream and told them to go home a different way, to avoid the wrath of King Herod. They listened to their dreams, trusting that God was speaking in them.
I believe in dreams.
But it's hard to share our dreams, because, well, someone might think we're a little off our rocker. Or irrational. Yeah, dreams can be irrational. But God's pretty irrational, if you think about it. Especially if you read the stories in the Bible! Yikes! Do we believe this stuff? Yep.
Dreams don't always give clear answers, but they can comfort and strengthen. Give us a memory, an image to hold onto.
A couple of months ago, during the season of Lent, I dreamed that I was standing across a table from my dear friend Karen. We were sorting some kind of grains, standing at the table. She was her usual lively, healthy, amused, fun self.
Still working with her hands, she looked up at me and said, "The tests are going to turn out fine."
I immediately started to sob. I knew how her story would turn out. "No, they aren't," I said.
She smiled a little more weakly, perhaps losing her resolve, and said, "Yes, they are."
I broke down, forgot what I was doing, and shook my head. "No, they aren't at all."
She stopped working, and looked at me. She leaned forward on the table and said urgently, "Then REMEMBER ME," she leaned in closer and took hold of my arms, "REMEMBER ME."
It was a bittersweet dream, because it felt like I was with her, truly, communicating gently. She wasn't afraid or in despair, but seemed resolved to the truth of the outcome of her life. But she gently reminded me to remember her. Remember her with my own life. Remember her with love. Remember, even when it hurt to remember. Remember, too, that she's alive. I needed that message, as we got closer to Holy Week.
I remember her every day-- as if she had to tell me...
Another day, just last month, I was having a hard time. There's some days that grief just sneaks up on you and envelops you with sadness. I had such a day. I was thinking of all the talks Karen and I had in our last days together, and I missed her terribly, the closeness we had through all of that.
Then I dreamed I was at Karen's house. And yet it wasn't her house. It was a house where I'd spent the best moments of my life so far. A place of overwhelming grace, comfort and joy-- the kind of place that just filled me with peace to be there. And she was there.
She looked healthy and beautiful, with her usual smile lighting up her face. I hugged her for a long time, holding the back of her head in one hand, so grateful to be able to hug her again. She was so happy. I pulled away and said to her, "I love you so much."
She smiled at me. "I love you so much, too!" she said, her arms still around me.
When I woke up, I could still feel her hug, as if I'd really been with her. I lay still for a long time, just savoring the gift.
Two days later, in that place where you're not quite awake but you're not really asleep, I heard Karen's voice say, "Do you need a touch every so often, Peggy?"
I rolled over and as I woke up, I said out loud, "Yes."
Whenever I hear or see something beautiful, she seems so close. During one visit to her house when she was in hospice care, she sat up in her bed, looking out the window. She told me about a commercial on TV-- she couldn't remember what it was for-- but it had a little boy in it who just threw up his arms in pure delight and said, "it's all beautiful!" She loved that commercial.
She looked at the lake, the ducks, the birds flying by, the squirrels feeding on the corn her husband Jim had left out there for them. She talked about her husband who gave her such a good life. She talked about her kids, whom she was so proud of. She talked about her friends who were so good to her, sending her cards and gifts, and even sneaking peeks into her hospital room when she hadn't wanted to receive any visitors. She held up her hands as she looked out the window, and talked of her life. "It's all beautiful!" she said, her face lit up with joy, and tears in her eyes. In the face of her impending death, she still saw the beauty of God, of life, of love. And she was grateful.
Last week I was in Minneapolis for a conference, and the music every day was astounding. The kind of music that lifted you up, made you cry, laugh out loud, and feel like God was reaching out and embracing us all-- I felt like if I turned around, I would see Karen listening, too, receiving the gift of music in all its beauty and joy, saying, "It's all beautiful!" It was like I could almost touch her fingertips. For a moment, and many moments after that, I knew she was ok. More than ok.
She's just beautiful.
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