I dream sometimes, maybe often.
Most are forgettable, like passing images in the night.
The more vivid ones tend to be chaotic, weird, violent, like plunging down an ocean cliff.
Most are forgettable, like passing images in the night.
The more vivid ones tend to be chaotic, weird, violent, like plunging down an ocean cliff.
This dream was different.
This dream was like a story, with a beginning, middle, and end.
A dream, but every part so real.
This dream was like a story, with a beginning, middle, and end.
A dream, but every part so real.
A garden, thriving under a summer sun with rows of lettuce,
cabbage, cucumbers, and more, much more.
In the middle of the garden, my mother, tending the work of her hands, bending down to check the progress.
I held very still, mesmerized by the image of my mother who had passed away nearly ten years ago.
I knew that it was a vision, that I couldn’t call her name, couldn’t run to her, couldn’t touch her.
But I experienced her presence nonetheless, and it filled me with extraordinary wonder.
And then I saw something else that truly transfixed me.
Straight across from where I stood in the shadow of a tree, on the other side of the garden, I saw my dad approaching, my dad who had been gone for fifty years, approaching now slowly, hesitantly, cautiously, as if approaching holy ground.
He stopped at the garden’s edge, slowly sank down to one knee, and looked at my mother.
With her back toward him, she could not see him.
She could not see his face, his gaze, the look that spoke of eager expectation.
Moments passed, the scene before me bathed in tranquility, yet poised for something more.
In the middle of the garden, my mother, tending the work of her hands, bending down to check the progress.
I held very still, mesmerized by the image of my mother who had passed away nearly ten years ago.
I knew that it was a vision, that I couldn’t call her name, couldn’t run to her, couldn’t touch her.
But I experienced her presence nonetheless, and it filled me with extraordinary wonder.
And then I saw something else that truly transfixed me.
Straight across from where I stood in the shadow of a tree, on the other side of the garden, I saw my dad approaching, my dad who had been gone for fifty years, approaching now slowly, hesitantly, cautiously, as if approaching holy ground.
He stopped at the garden’s edge, slowly sank down to one knee, and looked at my mother.
With her back toward him, she could not see him.
She could not see his face, his gaze, the look that spoke of eager expectation.
Moments passed, the scene before me bathed in tranquility, yet poised for something more.
I waited, tense with anticipation for the possible reunion.
Then I saw Dad stand up, open the garden gate noiselessly, and ever so gently walk toward Mom in the center of the garden.
As he came closer, I saw his face change as if an invisible veil of ineffable peace and bliss were drawn over it.
She must’ve felt someone approaching then, for she turned toward him.
I will never forget the way Dad looked at her, the way I had never seen him – the tenderness of the smile and the love in his eyes strong enough to erase the pain that had sometimes been between them when they were together, and all the pain that had been in their parting so many years ago.
Then I saw Dad stand up, open the garden gate noiselessly, and ever so gently walk toward Mom in the center of the garden.
As he came closer, I saw his face change as if an invisible veil of ineffable peace and bliss were drawn over it.
She must’ve felt someone approaching then, for she turned toward him.
I will never forget the way Dad looked at her, the way I had never seen him – the tenderness of the smile and the love in his eyes strong enough to erase the pain that had sometimes been between them when they were together, and all the pain that had been in their parting so many years ago.
And then the garden vanished.
But the memory of that dream has not.
Even now I’m awed and mystified by it.
And blessed.
For on this Father’s Day, in a world of too many absent fathers, the vision of parental shalom lingers as a precious and permanent possession.
Even now I’m awed and mystified by it.
And blessed.
For on this Father’s Day, in a world of too many absent fathers, the vision of parental shalom lingers as a precious and permanent possession.
That a dream could be such a lasting gift. Perhaps not a dream at all. How else can your memory of such a fleeting look on a loved one's face reveal so much more than you knew of that person in life and then stay with you the rest of your own life.
ReplyDeleteI'm in awe.
To call it a dream hardly seems enough.
I wonder if many of what we call dreams may be glimpses of heaven, of how our lives before and after death remain one life, but we may see more truly then and love more deeply.
Maybe vision in a better word than dream.
Thanks for writing this.