Not Who You Are

Jennifer and I were on the second floor of a very familiar house. A man was holding us at gunpoint. Another man held a group of about fifty young adults (between the ages of, say, twelve and twenty-five) downstairs. Jennifer, being Jennifer, waited until the man’s attention waned, then said to me, “Go. I’m right behind you.” Without an instant’s hesitation, I fled through a maze of rooms and doors until I came to a window. I crawled out onto a small ledge that ran the length of the side of the house. I slowly moved across the ledge, then took a deep breath and jumped to the ground, tumbling as I landed. Just as I regained my composure and stood, Jennifer had made it to the ledge and tumbled down beside me. I didn’t ask her what she had done to the man. I knew she hadn’t killed him; but I knew he wouldn’t be following us.

We carefully made our way around the house. The first floor had walls made entirely of glass, so we were ducking behind trees and bushes trying to find a way into the house to help the kids. I found a side door, and we waited, watching as the other man pushed the kids outside and locked the door. He made them lie on the ground, but the were laughing and making weird gestures.

When we came to the main room of the first floor, Jennifer and I found a stash of golden vials. We opened one, sniffed it, and Jennifer said, “Dust.” He meant to poison the kids. I told her to watch the door, and I began emptying the vials into the sink, rinsing them, and refilling them with water. The kids noticed us then, so the man came to the door. He opened it long enough to struggle with Jennifer, pushing her outside in his place, and locking her and the kids out.

Then he ran at me, screaming vulgar things, and pummeled me to the ground. I didn’t fight him. He just hit me, over and over, telling me what a fool I was, and how the kids needed his help, and that I would die for my actions. But he was weeping as he beat me. I reached up and touched the side of his face. “That’s not who you are,” I said. He hit me again. I let him. I took his face in both hands this time, and said, “You are a child of God! You are lovely!” He stood and kicked me, and wept, and swore at me. “God’s heart yearns for you!” I said. He kicked me in the face, but had no strength left, so he crumpled to the ground beside me, weeping. I took his face in my hands and said, “You are created in His image…you belong to Him!”

And suddenly, he looked me in the eye, and his face changed. It was a woman. A woman with straight lines on her face and dark hair. She was young–certainly no older than me. All of her tears were gone. “I thought I could save them,” she said to me, “I thought I could make them forget.”

“They don’t need to forget,” I answered, embracing her. “They need to remember…and drink fresh water…and live.”

Jennifer opened the door then, and the kids followed her back into the house. Jennifer said to me, “Sarah Rattai was right!”

I woke up this morning, with a clear idea of what this dream meant. The house was so familiar to me, though I cannot recall any details of it. I don’t think it’s a house that exists; it was only important that it was familiar. Regardless, I am curious if anything about this dream jumps out at anyone else? Try not to psycho-analyze Jennifer…this was my dream, not hers.

12 thoughts on “Not Who You Are

    • Jennifer is my best friend. Sarah Rattai is…you know…good question.

      Sarah Rattai is a gal I met twice. She prayed over me once, and in doing so, said that I was a “healer.”

      I, of course, rolled my eyes and cried out, “Please, God! Anything but that!”

  1. Then I think it’s the end of this dream that is the message for you–if you want to see young people get free of everything holding them captive, then you need to see how pushing stuff down and forcing it to be quiet won’t work–it takes the living water washing through all their past that brings new life.

    If you like, I can teach you an old dog’s tricks on how to do that with people. :)

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