Dream On - July 2011

I had a dream about my real dad last night. Very strange, because I haven’t dreamed about him in many years – in my mind, I see him as a book I’ve already read, one of those books you can read over and over and still find something you missed. The Book of Dad sits up on a high, dusty shelf in my mind, and while I take it out once in a while and stare at the cover or ponder a chapter, I always wipe off the dust and hide it back on the shelf. That book holds my life with him, my memories, feelings, and dreams of what might have been. When I take it off the shelf, I sometimes wonder if there will ever be a sequel. Usually, though, I accept that the book has already been concluded, and, at best, there will one day be a short funeral chapter that will serve as the prologue. So I hide it away and move on with the books still in progress, those that need my attention and investment, those that still have a chance for a beautiful ending.

But last night, my unconscious mind decided I needed to revisit that story. I could hear his voice, see his eyes, feel his love for me. In my dream, he looked just like he did when I last saw him – old, tired, broken. But as we walked and talked, catching up on each other’s lives, he grew taller, appeared younger, and the pain in his eyes seemed to lessen. Our barriers had been broken. We had come to a place of mutual acceptance, and I reached out to hold his hand. I couldn’t believe it! A sequel was beginning!

But something was wrong. When I touched his hand, the sadness returned to his eyes and his skin was cold as ice. He told me he loved me, but no sound came out as his mouth moved, and the excitement I had felt just moments before was replaced by grief. He was gone, and there would be no sequel. No forgiveness, no repentance, no love, no joy, no renewal, not even a goodbye. Only sorrow and longing for what might have been. I woke up feeling drained, sad, and emotionally exhausted. My body may have gotten a good night’s sleep, but my brain certainly didn’t.

Sitting at work, on the other side of this dream, I can’t help but wonder why God chose to show me that. Why get my hopes up for the millionth time, only to dash them with such finality? I don’t know the answer to that question, but I do know that whatever his reason, it’s for my good. So, in the harsh light of day, I move forward, shoving the Book of Dad back onto that deeply hidden shelf. Maybe the prologue really is all that’s left?