I’ve thought about this post for a while. I’ve mentioned sharing my dreams with you. Two in particular, but I have hesitated. Hesitated because they are so bizarre and simultaneously fantastical that I didn’t want to be labeled as “crazy” or viewed as “fanatical”. Pride, no?
Then I came upon a fellow Lay Dominican blogger, Anna Elisa over at The Runaway Doctor and she posted her very disturbing dream. I too shared one of mine in response and promised to come back with another dream for her to read about. After contemplating a bit and after listening to Deacon TC last night at RCIA say that God can speak to us through friendships, closed doors, situations and dreams (just to name a few), I thought I would share these dreams here with all of you.
The First Dream (the night before the Memorial of Our Lady of Mt. Carmel). It’s important to note here that I was making my first Marian consecration via Fr. Michael Gaitley’s book 33 Days to Morning Glory A Do-It-Yourself Retreat in Preparation for Marian Consecration.
I rarely write to you of my mother and father and with good reason. We don’t speak and have had a strained relationship over the years, but I respect and love them out of my commitment to adhering to God’s commandments. The Baltimore Catechism states:
By the fourth commandment we are commanded to respect and love our parents, to obey them in all that is not sinful, and to help them when they are in need.
Children, obey your parents in the Lord, for that is right. (Ephesians 6:1) [all my emphasis]
I only mention them here because this dream is about two of the three children they fostered (and have since been reunified with their birth parents). Over the course of a year (plus) I got attached to the children. I would video conference with them and talk to them, ask my mother about their well being, mail them Christmas presents, post cards and pray for them. So many rosaries. Decades of rosaries for their emotional and physical well being and healing. As I mentioned, they were reunified with their birth parents. This means, that I would never see or know of them again. I’m not related to them in any way and they are in a different state. The birth parents don’t know me and I don’t have any rights at all whatsoever to those children. But, they are with me in spirit. I still pray for them always. They are about 2 years old, about 3 years old and about 4 years old. It’s funny, as I write this, I am thinking of how the sound of a child crying is something I have never been able to bear. Never, for as long as I can remember. It hurts me physically in my heart and I am compelled to pick up the child, soothe the child or if I am out in public, I have to walk far enough away to where I can’t hear it. The crying doesn’t have to be in response to a negative situation, it’s just any cry. I simply can’t handle it.
I am walking down a dark street in a suburban neighborhood. I am not walking on the sidewalks, but in the middle of the street. I see streetlamps dimly lit. The soft glow of their light casts a fuzzy light on the pavement. I keep walking and in the distance see the oldest child, a girl – we’ll call her T, sitting on the neck of the youngest girl – we’ll call her M. M, can’t breathe. T isn’t trying to be mean or malicious, she just doesn’t know better. I walk over and pick them both up and hold them to my chest, tightly. I say to them that it’s ok, that I am here to love them both. I see a light, brighter than the streetlamps coming from a house to my right. It’s the birth mother – or what I think she would look like. She asks me how I knew to come to them at that moment. I put the children down and raise my hands to the sky and say “He told me to be here”. The children run inside and she closes the door. My hands are still extended to God. As I slowly move my arms down to my sides, I feel that there are branches in my hair. Really, really tall branches. But they’re soft in some places too. I pull a little to see what it is in my hair, and it’s white.
They were angel wings.
What do you make of this dream?
Next time, I will share with you another dream. Not as sweet as this one. Quite, quite different.