Dreaming like Daniel and the Fine Line Between Illusion & Truth

It felt so real. Those are the words that echo in my mind this cold November morning. Even with the heat cranked on high in our tiny one bedroom apartment, I feel a chill rush through my bones, as I recount a particular episode from last night. If I were to start backwards, it's 3:39 a.m. and I've just lept out of the comfort of my bed, in a state of urgency. I'm wide awake, as if everything instantly became clear. I'm on a mission. I've cracked the code, so to speak. I'm ready to brake free from the confines of my locked room. But reality swiftly sets in--it's pitch black, far from dawn, and I was only dreaming.

Now, let's start at the beginning.

Do you ever have those dreams where you wake up and you're positive that whatever just happened while your eyes were closed was, in fact, pure reality? It happened, I'm sure of it. I felt the bittersweet emotions, I tasted the tears that ran down my face and also laughed during the moments of overwhelming joy, I heard the voice of my friends, my husband--I know I did. That's exactly how my heart processed the details when I awoke today. I remember going to sleep a little after 9 p.m., when I finally got my pillow tucked under my head in the most ideal position. My breathing relaxed and I nodded off.

And that's when I woke up in another room.

The light in my new bedroom was muted. A bedside lamp to my right, flickered on and I could tell that something was a little off. I had been in this room before. It was the room at my grandmother's house where she'd make me take afternoon naps as a child. I'd lie on the twin size bed, twiddling my thumbs, wishing that I didn't have to take naps--naps were silly. But no, wait. It wasn't that exact bedroom. I'm not there, am I? I know--it's my dorm room at college! Junior year, Goodwin Hall. The same musty smell and cramped quarters. I didn't like that room very much either. Three girls sharing one room was a recipe for conflict. As I pace about my room, I notice qualities that remind me of other rooms I've lived in--my parent's upcountry Maui home, my Aunt's dark and chilly basement, all possessing distinct qualities that somehow have melded into this one room.

Suddenly, I don't want to be here. I want to go home, or at least somewhere safer. Too many difficult memories--pain, confusion, entrapment. As I walk over to the door to leave, it's locked. I start to panic and am met with a stifling sense of solitude. No one else is here. It's just me and all these memories, locked up. My eyes scatter about my surroundings. Old books, magazines, clothing, jewelry and favorite keepsakes line the bed, the dresser, the floor. I feel overwhelmed. It's a hoarder's paradise. All around me are possessions I've owned throughout the years. Items I once found essential--my favorite pair of earrings, my childhood journal, dolls I lost. An eerie sense of wonder takes hold of me. For a moment, I'm excited at all these "treasures" but the loneliness swiftly creeps in. I'm alone, in this room, trapped with this stuff.

It's not a goldmine, it's a prison.

My heart for these things begins to fade and I realize that I have to sort through them. I'm not sure why I come to this decision. But I do. And I act on it. One by one, I pick up each piece of jewelry and I place it in the trash. Looking back, I don't even know if there was a trashcan initially, but it appeared once I needed it. Gold and silver earrings went in the trash. Then the books, the magazines, the keepsakes--all sorted out and discarded. In what felt like seconds and also an eternity--everything was cleared. My bed was neatly made, the dresser and lampstand were empty, and a warmth permeated the space. I didn't feel so alone anymore.

At that moment, the door to my room opened and I noticed it was time to leave. The second I walked through the door, it was as if God whispered to me, "You made it. You are free. I am carrying you through a season of 'sorting' and all those things that you have locked up deep inside your heart are finally being sorted. And you can let them go, because I am doing a new thing. You don't need to hold on to them so tightly--I will give you what you need. Do not be afraid to let them go."

I'm crying now as I write this. There have been so many things that I have held on to over the years: pain, fear, insecurity--and also material items. But in Christ I can be free. I don't need to operate out of my past. I don't have to live in a world of false security, where the walls I create to protect me and my "treasure", instead obstruct me from experiencing true freedom.

Looking back, I'm not sure who opened the door or even if it was ever really locked from the outside. Perhaps it was locked from the inside and God allowed me to see that my choices were keeping me trapped in that place. I'm fascinated by the seemingly thin line between the illusion of freedom and true, unobstructed freedom. I want real freedom and the treasure of the Kingdom.

Lord, please continue to sort my heart. I want treasure that lasts.

"Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where moth and rust do not destroy, and where thieves do not break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also." 

Matthew 6:19-21