Tuesday, October 1, 2013


I dreamed a dream the other night.

I was exhausted from a solid day and a half of running a women's retreat, listening to them share their hearts and their tears with me, battling a strange stomach ailment, worshiping with all I had, and failing to sleep much at all that first night.

So on Saturday night I dreamed a dream.

Earlier in the evening, my friend showed me a picture of her wiener dog. That's going to be important in about twelve seconds.

I went to bed at 1:00 am on Saturday night. My voice was already showing signs of years of smoking despite the fact that I've never taken so much as a puff. Or a drag. Or whatever you call it when you smoke a cigarette once. Because. No. But the point is that my voice was done and I was exhausted.

Still, I couldn't turn my brain off because of all the CRAZY MIRACULOUS that God had done in that place that day. The victory was for my friend but God had used my mouth to speak words and used the speaker's mouth to say THE SAME WORDS at a different time and stuff like that just does not happen all the time. And when it does it's as if God is saying, "TAKE NOTICE!" So I was letting my mind dwell on the praiseworthy which is all fine and good but, at some point, it really needed to dwell on some rapid eye movement sleep.

Eventually I fell asleep because eventually I woke up and remembered that I'd dreamed a dream.

There was a little old man. He was little. And old. And very slow. He asked me to help him burglarize some dude who appeared to be in his mid to late thirties. Although, I only ever saw the younger guy sleeping so it's hard to say just how old he was. Why is it that our dream selves are perfectly willing to go along with completely cockamamie plans? 

Because of course I was willing to hop into the passenger seat of the little old man's car--which was my first mistake because he was probably pushing 90 and should have had his license revoked--and be an accomplice. 

The little old man and I crept quietly in to the younger dude's second story apartment building. I collected all the prescription meds while the little old man procured the victim's wiener dog. Next thing I know, I'm riding around town with a lap full of drugs and a dog at my feet. That's when I started to second guess my actions. Up until that point, I was perfectly fine committing crimes but, suddenly, I was overcome with gripping guilt. I looked down at the dog and felt so terribly sorry for his owner. I looked at the little old man and felt so sad for this lonely criminal. There, in the passenger seat, I wrestled with what to do. 

Then I woke up.

And when I told the story I accidentally said, "I'm sure I dreamed it because Cory sent Christina a picture of the weenie." 

It took me a couple of seconds to realize that I needed to clarify that the picture was actually of a dog.

Maybe our retreat needs a disclaimer. What happens at the women's retreat stays at the women's retreat.

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