Catching the dream song: discerning God’s voice in unusual ways

While Western spirituality doesn’t give much credence to dreams, voices and visions (unless you’re a Pentecostal), Christians in other cultures take these phenomena seriously. I’ve also learned to accept that dreams are one of the ways God speaks to me. Perhaps my relationships with Friends in Bolivia and Rwanda have made me more open to this experience.

Not all dreams weigh the same, of course. Most mornings I wake up to floating images that I desperately want to hang onto because of their tantalizing hints and colors, but the harder I try, the quicker they dissolve. Most mornings. But from time to time, I awaken to a story or an image that is clear, if not totally coherent. I’ve learned to receive these dreams as a gift, and to write them down as soon as possible as a way of listening to them.

Sometimes, the dream gives me an insight into a difficult relationship or into some aspect of my own inner turmoil. Other times it’s clearly a word from God. It’s one of the ways God shows me the way forward. It gives light on the path.

One morning last week I woke up with a new song. Snatches of the tune and a few lines of the chorus were swimming through my brain: “Newborn, let me slow down and walk with you.” I was singing the song to a baby. The music was hauntingly beautiful. But like catching a strong and stubborn fish, I’ve hooked the song, but I can’t reel it in. Only the images remain. I shared it with Hal and we both agreed that God was speaking to me.

In the dream I was an older woman, about 10-20 years beyond where I am now. I was walking around London by myself, obviously a tourist. (On our recent trip in “real life,” Hal and I had a 15 hour layover in London, and we spent it doing just that.) I had the scraggly mussed look of someone in the middle of a long journey.

I wandered into a lovely old stone church that managed to be smaller on the inside than it was on the outside. A handful of people of various ages were standing around the altar, and as I approached I saw that a young couple was christening their baby.

I joined them, and at a lull in the service, I asked a young man if I could borrow his guitar and sing to the baby. In the dream this seemed entirely appropriate. I sang a lullaby I had written, a blessing addressed directly to the baby. It was gentle, simple, profound and beautiful. People were obviously touched. The baby went to sleep.

Before the song even came to an end, I woke up.

I think God is addressing some of my fears about growing old. This is God’s loving, affirming response to my questions: Will I still be me? Will I still be creative? Will I still have something of value to give other people?

Some insights after reflection on the dream: 1) Old age happens mid-journey. It is not the goal, certainly not the end of the trip.

2) My beauty and ministry will be rooted in my creativity.

3) God’s gifts grow better with time.

4) As I follow the Spirit, God will make my giving appropriate, profound and beautiful.

My prayer partner had an additional interpretation of the dream. She suggests that I am all the people in the dream, that I need to (and can) minister creatively to all the ages inside me, including the baby. It’s interesting that all age groups were clustered around the altar.

So much to ponder. I sense anew God’s love and blessing. And I’m grateful for all the ways God speaks to us.

Beneath the streets of Moscow

I’m in that strange transition time between leaving one planet and landing back on my home planet. We left Moscow six days ago and have been in meetings in Miami. Due to a glitch in our ticket, we have one more day here in Florida before heading on to Oregon.

I woke up this morning, as I have woken up every morning for the last week, submerged in the subways beneath the streets of Moscow. In some of the dreams I’ve become separated from my friends and find myself lost, unable to read the signs, surrounded by hundreds of people all in purposeful motion. The roar of the frequently arriving trains on both sides of the platform, the possibility of numerous levels of platforms connected by long escalators, and the ominous presence of the abrupt unguarded drops down to the tracks—these all weave through my dreams and send me groping for the light of day.

Variations on this dream have been recurring several times a night, and this tells me I need to pay attention.

My actual experience of the subways of Moscow was positive, in part due to Johan and Judy’s excellent guidance. The subway experience is just one aspect of normal life to them. Yes, we had to keep alert, eyes on the guide, stick together and move quickly. And our jaunts from one place in the city to another often involved transfers from one subway line to others, usually on different levels. But it was all part of the adventure.

I found the Moscow subway system amazing. An immense but logically organized labyrinth of tunnels, tracks, platforms, levels and escalators links the city and offers a highly efficient transportation service. Not only well lighted and with ample signs and maps, the different subway stations are works of art. It seems that Stalin, the instigator of all this, decided he wanted the subway system to be as splendid as the theaters of the day. We didn’t get a chance to explore a theater, but “splendid” is a word I might use to describe several of the subway stations. Chandeliers, frescos, sculpture, paintings, floor mosaics—if it weren’t for the swiftly moving crowds, I’d have been tempted to slow down and take it all in.

Speaking of the crowds, they also amazed me. In all the rush and crowding, a certain orderliness reigned. People did not push, even as we funneled into the narrow openings of the escalators or rushed to get on a train before the doors closed. Even though people avoided making eye-contact, courtesy prevailed. This may have more to do with Russian culture than with the subways, but I was impressed.

Did I mention that the subways were clean?

So why these dark dreams? Why the fear? I’ve learned that my dreams, especially the dreams I remember, are about me, not the external reality they’re drawn from. In other words, this is not a critique of the subways of Moscow. It’s a call to attention.

To what? I’m not clear on that yet. Our Miami meetings have concluded, but I still feel the impact of the intense emotions as we worked through the complexities of a growing organization. At times the “roar” of the trains almost overwhelmed my senses. Is this the meaning? Or is it the specter of having to work our way through the maze of the social security system in a few years? That could certainly spark fear. Does it have to do with my reactions to difficulties in the extended family circle? Or is this about growing older?

I need to wait and listen. In the meantime, thank you, Moscow, for a fine adventure. And thank you for giving me a splendid metaphor as I explore the subterranean places in my own life.

(Written May 24, 2012)