I had a dream about my grandmother last night.
The family was there, all of us at the old home place overlooking the cypress-shaded bayou banks. I was sitting at the family dining table on the back porch when my mother up and announced to anyone within earshot that “Seth is an alcoholic, so please do not hoist a millstone around his neck by offering him a drink.” She said this, of course, holding a red Solo cup that smelled of lime and gin. I lashed out, told her it wasn’t her story to tell, that I’d rather share my story in my own way.
“Let me raise my own Ebenezers,” I said.
She blushed, apologized for the production, and made her way to the back shadows of the kitchen. Even in dreams, I have developed ways of holding people at arm’s length.
My grandmother appeared at the table, sitting next to me, her sad blue eyes welling with tears. She was wearing a stern, kind smile. I’d seen this look before; it was her “I agreed to sponsor so-and-so in their twelve-step program” face. She reached from the head of the table to my isolated corner. She said, “I’m so proud of you, Seth. This is all going to work just fine. You watch.”
That was it. I woke warm.
What are dreams? Are they composed of magic, or of unpacked memories? Are they full of the thoughts of men, or of the echoes of souls departed?
Some psychologists claim that dreams are our attempt to organize junked-up thoughts. We recycle the useful, catalog it; we scrap the usable iron, send the rest to rust in the rain. Dreams are the winnowing fork, the way we separate wheat from chaff. At least, this is what the noggin doctors say, and I know this must be true, because the letters after their names evidence their expertise in noggin doctory.
Maybe the nogginologists are right. But what if dreams are more?
In this life, we leave our marks on those around us. Perhaps some of those marks run more like record grooves. Suppose we can put a needle in the grooves; suppose we can play the best part of each other by way of dreams. Suppose my dream was a recording set for me long ago by my grandmother; suppose she left me this word for a day when I’d need it.
My grandmother is with Jesus, she a firm believer. Suppose the Spirit told her the right words to say so that I’d recall them at the moment I’d need them most. In that way, maybe my grandmother reached ahead of the grave, gave me the peace that, yes, it’s going to be okay. I’ll see. And she’ll be proud.
This is the believing.
It’s all going to be okay.
Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner. May I hear the better wisdom of my grandmother.