Perchance to Dream...

So, does God speak to us in dreams?

I don’t know. Or maybe I should say, I don’t know if He speaks to ME in dreams. I want Him to. I want to believe that He has directed me at crucial times in my life, and given me wisdom and direction to the point that a whole community of believers has gathered as a result of that wisdom.

I have had several…not many, but several dreams that I have carried around with me through my life.

One was a dream I recounted in the story “The Wanderer for Wonderwhat”…it was a dream about a religious machine.

I had a dream that helped me to understand my calling…if it was from God, that is. It was exciting, with man-eating wolves and a crooked staff that became straight…and all kinds of stuff like that, but it’s sort of private to me, so I won’t go into that one.

I dreamed about my mother’s death, six months before it happened, and the imagery of that dream foretold the circumstances and result of her passing, and it helped me through that pain in huge ways. I really hope that one was from God.

I dream every night.

Only a few dreams through the years have haunted me with that lingering sense of awe, where I wake up sort of like Jacob, wondering if there was a ladder to heaven nearby while I slept.

About a year and a half ago, I had this really strange dream. It still haunts me, especially in light of the recent trembling in the movement I’m associated with.
How do you retell a dream and capture the esoteric nature of all the feelings it produced?
I don’t know.

How about this? How about an addendum to Wanderer’s story?

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The Chapel

The Wanderer was sitting in a small, unadorned and crudely built chapel. Around him on the rough wooden benches sat crowds of people, all of whom he was familiar with, but a few of which were close friends. They sat, captivated by the sound of a choir made up of children who were singing a melody that thrilled the soul, and at the same time pushed tears from the edges of the eyes.

When their song was complete, the Wanderer stood up, as though getting ready to address the people present, but he was interrupted by a group of men wearing suits, one of which carried a briefcase. Marching to the front of the chapel, they announced,
“We have some things to straighten out. You may not like this, but it’s for the good of everyone involved.” With that, the man with the briefcase came to the front and with a flourish, set it on the floor and opened it. From inside, he pulled a wooden mask, carved with the face of a devil, with two long goat-horns protruding from the top.

The Wanderer shifted uncomfortably in his chair. This was very curious behavior, he thought.

The man with the mask held it before his face and announced, “This is the Devil, and this is what he’s trying to do here!” With that, still holding the mask before his face, he began to dance in front of the children who had been singing, making frightening noises and mimicking an attack on them.

The hair stood up on the Wanderer’s neck, and a rage at this intrusion and foolishness filled his stomach. He began to rise to his feet, but in the next instant, he was sitting again, and several rows to the rear of where he had been. The Wanderer turned to the person next to him and asked what had happened.

“You don’t remember? Are you serious?”

“Yes, very serious. How did I get back here?”

“You’re saying you don’t know what you just did?”

The Wanderer’s blood turned to ice. “No…what did I do?”

“While we were being warned about the Devil, you stood up and grabbed that mask from the man, broke the horns off and shouted to the children ‘This is not the devil, this is a show put on by men trying to control you!’ With that, they ordered you to sit down and remain quiet, and threatened to throw you out of this chapel. So you walked back here and sat down. You really don’t remember this?”

“No…” The Wanderer’s voice trailed off. The men in the front had pulled a stack of folders from the briefcase, and began to read off the points of a legal document, outlining what it meant to be a church, but that isn’t what had caught The Wanderer’s eye. He saw something that caused a chill to run up his spine and erupt in a gasp.

It was the children.

They were leaving. Forming a line, a procession, walking with their right hand on the shoulder of the one in front of them, they began to slowly march from the front of the chapel to the rear, exiting through the door.

As they went, they sang ever so softly, “All I want to do is trust Him, All I want to do is love Him.”

The Wanderer broke. He doubled over in a deep weeping. The person next to him tried to quiet him, patting him on the back, whispering “Shhh, what’s the matter with you?”

The Wanderer looked up at him in amazement. “Don’t you see?” he said, gesturing toward the procession of children.

“See what?” The person said, looking in the direction The Wanderer had pointed. The Wanderer searched the person’s eyes, trying to understand if he really couldn’t see what was happening.

“What are you seeing?” the person said, a look of concern crossing his face.

The Wanderer sat up and grabbed the person by the shoulders, his eyes a torrent of rushing tears and through clenched teeth announced:

“We are losing our innocence.”


The Wanderer awoke with a start, his face moist, his nose running. He stared at the ceiling fan, wondering what had just happened. With the back of his hand he wiped his eyes, rolled over to look out the window at the moon, and began to pray.

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Dreams are weird things. Burritos and onions are often the seeds from which they sprout.

I wish I knew for sure that God speaks through dreams to me. It would be awfully nice to know.