Dreaming on the Everlasting Arms

The number of friends I have who are gushing about the latest Leonardo DiCaprio movie, Inception, is approaching conspiracy levels. The movie is a psychological thriller about dreams. And either it’s really great, or a lot of people are drinking the same kool-aid.

I have never taken dreams seriously. Indigestion of the brain, I’ve always said. They are only the subconscious, attempting to work out challenges and fears, letting off steam. The fun dreams, I sometimes (but rarely) share with others. The disturbing ones, I don’t, so that I can forget them more easily. I generally do not ascribe any significant meaning to them, other than attempting to figure out what real life circumstances might have triggered them.

The most defining characteristic of a dream is that it is usually very easily forgotten. Just like the morning mist, it burns up by mid-day and becomes difficult to recall.

Unless you write it down.

But I’ve never been one to do that, either. I’ve heard some people say you should keep a “dream journal” and try to analyze them. Baloney. I don’t see much purpose in writing about the president of my alma mater randomly bursting into song in the middle of Pizza Hut. Or the dream I had a few nights ago, in which I was about to speak at a conference but realized I was dressed in 80’s clothes – a lemon-yellow Izod shirt, black acid-washed denim jeans, and slide-on Keds. I hurriedly rushed back to my dorm room to change, (never mind the fact that I graduated from college in 1998), but the desk assistant wouldn’t let me enter. It was true to her character. She was Angela from “The Office.”

In spite of my reluctance to chronicle dreams, I had one several years ago that was so vivid, so profound in its meaning, that I went against my principles and wrote it down when I woke up. I just had to. I did not want to allow it to pop like a glycerin bubble by noon, never to return to me. And so…I share it here.

It was a variation on a theme of a recurring dream that I had been having…what I call the “bridge is out” dream. (I never particularly liked having those. They tended to end rather badly.)

But this time, I saw an unidentified person running a race, and Jesus was running too. Up ahead, the pathway completely dropped off, like a cliff. (Note to self: have race officials address this glaring problem in next dream.) The path may have been a paved road or dirt road, or a long bridge. Dreams are always blurry. Unfortunately, for some reason, the runner couldn’t…or wouldn’t…stop.

Jesus, sounding like a leading man from some famous movie, called out authoritatively, “This is not the end of the road.”

At the last possible minute, he grabbed the runner, and the two of them took off flying over the edge, Jesus carrying the person in his arms. Glorious, triumphant music swirled around me.
At that moment, I became the person I saw. That perspective became my own – flying overhead, being carried by Jesus, and waving at all the people below who were covering the hillsides. They were all laughing and cheering and waving back at us, and I was filled to the brim with utter happiness…the kind that one does not want to forfeit by waking up. And that was the end of all my “bridge is out” dreams.

Jesus…my Savior, who carries me over the edges of cliffs…those I face in this life, and then the ultimate cliff between here and eternity. He doesn’t let me fall.

The eternal God is your refuge, and underneath are the everlasting arms. (Deuteronomy 33:27)