Most of the time my dreams are made up of disconnected scenes that don’t make sense and weird, often scary, situations. I usually wake up and (1) am thankful that it was just a dream, and (2) wonder about those people in my dream whom I’ve never met. Fascinating. The dream that I had a few nights ago (the characters are my brother and myself) was another quirky one, but this time at least part of it had a meaning that was clear and wonderful to me.
The car would not start, and they were in the middle of a street that was full of men and women walking in all directions.
He tried again, but he only heard the click-click sound. So they stepped out.
People grabbed at them, saying, “I’m ready” and “Take me.”
Then, they were at her home. The sky was gray. So was the house and their skin.
They walked through the gate and saw bundles of branches on the ground. The bundles covered the lawn, all stacked three-high, neat and twined.
A path, cut deep and wide and colored black, led them to the side yard where the lavender flowers grew. She lingered there while he moved ahead.
He stopped. “Lightning!” He turned to look at her.
She went to his side and saw it, too. There, where the path ended.
Its trunk had burst. The remaining branches were daggers, ugly and short, with splintered bark. The fruit that remained were scorched in shades of brown — except for one, untouched, a bright yellow.
“When did it happen?”
“Don’t know. It rained yesterday.”
“Did you hear it?”
Then, a rustling sound.
They saw a book. It was thrust through from the back to the front by a branch of the tree. Its pages fluttered with a strong wind but did not tear.
They moved close to the book. It held strong on the branch, despite the wind and the wound.
Holy Bible, the cover read.
They stared at the book as it hung there. They did not speak.
Then, they walked on, past the book, past the broken tree, and into the street where the people called their names.
Image from augustachronicle.com. Rare bibles on display at the Christian Heritage Museum in Maryland.