Not Just a Dream

I had a vivid and silent dream one night. Completely silent. It was an image only, peaceful. It was more than a dream; it was an experience. A very real experience that carried over into wakefulness. In the dream, I was sitting on the ground beside an albino wearing white looking ahead at a large white house. His hair was a white afro. The house was brightly lit but empty. When the man turned and looked at me I could see his eyes were flames. The image is burned in my memory. I woke up, and immediately a rush of emotion assailed me; deep sadness overwhelmed me, and I began crying. The movement from complete peace and silence to heavy heartedness was profound. Words flowed upward from someplace within, and I shook my husband awake, “It’s Yeshua; He’s sad because His house is empty.”

The experience propelled me to give outward. It wasn’t a natural action of my own that I can take credit for; I  am naturally quite selfish. It was the Holy Spirit. I wrote when I could about my experiences. I told everyone that I loved God. I turned every song I knew to Scripture. I began praying in restaurants—the Catholic meal blessing prayer starting with the Sign of the Cross. I went to Church. I started volunteering. I taught my own kids about God. I seemed to experience a fresh push to do for the Lord. It wasn’t the old me, for sure, folks who knew me before probably thought I grew another head or something.

Not too long after my dream, a month or two maybe, I was dedicated to prayer, which to me was a constant conversation with Jesus. Prayer was the only way to freedom from darkness, from nothingness that arrived first when I was harassed. I drove through my usual route and saw an albino on the side of the road, shirtless (I live in Florida!) wearing sunglasses. “Abba, did you see that?” I laughed.

A few more months passed, and one day before leaving my office, as is my custom sometimes, I opened my Bible to a random place, just to see if Jesus wanted to say something to my heart from His Word. A began reading where my Bible opened. It was John’s vision of Christ near the beginning of Revelation. “There was one like a son of man among lampstands…hair like white fine spun wool and eyes like a burning flame…”

My goodness. Before that moment, I had no idea that what I was experiencing was prophetic or layered; and I had never read that Scripture before. I was still wondering about the connection between the stranger in my dream and the words I spoke and the emotion as I woke up! I still don’t understand everything, but I know my relationship with Jesus is ongoing. I talk to Him; He talks to me, but He doesn’t always explain everything.

Jesus showed up again last night. He handed me another pen with His name engraved. This one has both His name and mine engraved on it. He always does this. I was watching TV at the time, and the lady said at that moment, “You’re not done. There is a call on your life.”

Well, Dad? I’m writing. Is this what you wanted?

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