by Amy Newmark
And then, as so often happens with heavenly messages, the dream began to lose its power. I was busy teaching Scripture, busy teaching people to pray, busy teaching people how to hear God. Busy, as it turned out, dying.
The following January I was giving a retreat at the beautiful Trappist monastery in Snowmass, Colorado. The Trappists invite the retreatants to pray the liturgy of the hours with them in true monastic fashion. And so at 4 a.m., we all walked in frigid silence down the mountain dirt road to the chapel, lit by a single bulb in the dark night.
After Lauds, I foolishly left my flashlight with some in our group who wanted to stay to pray so that they could go up the mountain later. I walked out into the pitch-black night, took a wrong turn and was immediately, dangerously lost. I walked in the freezing winter night, walked until the light from that solitary lantern was lost, walked until, desperate, I turned off the road and made my way to a cabin in the distance.
While standing on the porch of the old cabin, I heard some stirring in the bushes. I caught my breath as I remembered that we had just sung Psalm 104—“You give the lions their food in due season” — and then, standing at the doorway of the old mountain cabin, my dream of eight months earlier came back to me. I had walked right into my dream.
Is this what it was all about? Is that how dreams work? Had I been given a preview of my own horrible “death by bobcat”? And if so, what possible good was that? Why have prophetic dreams if we don’t have the tools to unlock them in time?
I stood absolutely still, and the rustling stopped. Soon the sun came up over the valley, and I could see the retreat center, way off in the distance. I made my way back just in time to join the group as they were once again going down the mountain for Morning Prayer.
I returned to Denver pondering all of this, astonished that I had once again been visited by the dream, only this time while very much awake! But almost immediately I was tired—too tired to work, too tired to move, too tired to investigate strange, recurring dreams. And when the quarterly newsletter from NOCC (the National Ovarian Cancer Coalition) arrived in the mail, I noticed that extreme fatigue was listed as one of the symptoms of the disease. I called my gynecologist and said, “It’s happened. I have ovarian cancer.”
From that moment, the moment I finally recognized it and named it, the dream stopped chasing me, circling me, signaling to me that my “female energy” was being eaten alive by a ten-centimeter tumor. Many months later, after the emergency hysterectomy and months of chemotherapy, I asked my oncologist how long he thought that tumor had been growing. “Probably about ten months,” he said. The very same time that the dreams appeared.
On March 24, 2014, I reached a milestone too few women with this cancer ever reach—the victorious ten-year mark. I am the longest living survivor of ovarian cancer at the Rocky Mountain Cancer at Rose Medical Center in Denver.
I will always wonder about this dream, and the dream that preceded it, the one my friend Gloria had years earlier, the one about the horse lying down to die. She couldn’t have realized that sometimes the dream sent to one finds its fuller meaning in the telling to another. And with that same sense of wonder I tell it now to you.
~Kathy McGovern
The Song and the Dance
Music is what feelings sound like.
~Author Unknown
When our son deployed to Afghanistan, God gave me a song. At the time, it was a popular song, played often on the radio, but I purchased my favorite version of it on CD. Listening to the song was one way of releasing all the pent-up emotions of fear, anxiety, and longing. A soldier in the U.S. Army, Phil had been through Basic and AIT here in the States, but once he was deployed halfway around the world in the midst of a war-torn country it was hard to bear.
On my normal route to work, I had what became a daily ritual. After some minutes of whispered prayer, I would pop in the CD and sing along until my tears overpowered the lyrics. Then I would sob quietly and pray until the song was over. Before reaching work I would pull myself together.
When I slipped into the office, the first thing I did was check my e-mail to see if I had one from our soldier. Two or three times a week, there would be a short note; those hastily written e-mails were the greatest treasure imaginable. Often I would print the contents and carry them to the staff prayer meetings. Most of the people I worked with had known our son since he was a baby, and they joined with me as we offered up fervent prayers for his safety. Over and over, day in and day out, week after week, month after month, we prayed. Our voices raised together in prayer were sweet times. I needed the comfort because deep in my heart, I knew he was in a real life-and-death struggle.
Then, one day while still overseas in the war zone, Phil had a dream. I firmly believe it was our prayers that caused this to happen. To this day, he does not know whether he was actually asleep or awake—only that the dream was more real than his physical location. Nevertheless, when it was over, he knew two things with certainty. He knew that he would not die in Afghanistan, but would return to the States alive and well. And he also knew that when he returned he would marry the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. When he woke up, he wrote everything he could remember about the dream and sent it to me via e-mail.
Since Phil believed the Lord gave him the dream, he embraced every part of it. An astonishing faith carried him through every possible fear. Armed with heavenly protection, he volunteered for highly dangerous missions, then would write home about them — at least the ones that weren’t classified. I would e-mail back and remind him that he was the one who had the dream, not me, so would he please be a little more careful? I had never seen a physical manifestation of the peace that passes all understanding, but when he received some R&R time and came home for two weeks, it was evident on his face. No one could pretend to be at peace like that; it’s not humanly possible. He simply had no fear at all concerning battle missions.
Eventually the deployment ended, and he came home for good, safe and sound notwithstanding some bouts with PTSD. That was the stuff of nightmares. He experienced acute anxiety around crowds—even people he had known and loved all his life — and a distinct disassociation from our present-day culture. His dad and I continued to pray. It wasn’t over yet.
Meanwhile, his father and I moved to a different city. After several months of miserably existing on his own, Phil visited and decided to move to our new location. Still figuring out what he wanted to do, he hired on with a company in the oil field industry, but his main focus proved to be the church we attended. He began to attend regularly, got involved and made good friends, then started back to college with a fresh vision. And, yes, he finally met that beautiful woman from his dream.
They dated while he finished his degree, then married. At their wedding, when it was our turn to dance, he and I gingerly stepped out onto the floor. Since neither of us cared much for wedding dances, we hesitantly shuffled around the dance floor. Suddenly I was mesmerized by the music playing. When I asked him what the song was, he responded, “Mom, I have no idea. Jasmine chose all the music.”
By that time, though, I knew.
It was the same song the Lord gave me all those mornings I drove to work, crying my eyes out, pleading with God for our son’s safety and wellbeing. It was the song not one person in the world knew about but my heavenly Father and me. Same one, same version, now playing in honor of the mother-son dance at my son’s wedding. Only this time, he was not a million miles away in a war zone, but safe and marvelously happy in his role as groom.
Admittedly, my eyes watered and the room blurred, but only for a moment. I was just too happy to stay choked up this time around. As the song played, I snuggled into his strong arms one more time as we laughed, dancing our way into his bright future. He got the girl—I got the song and the dance.
It was more than enough.
~Mary Pat Johns
Rainy Day Rescue
Your mind knows only some things. Your inner voice, your instinct, knows
everything. If you listen to what you know instinctively, it will always lead you down the right path.
~Henry Winkler
I cannot remember the first time I had a strong intuitive feeling I needed to act on. But I do remember the day that feeling saved an old woman’s life. It was the day after Easter. I was fourteen.
A couple of friends and I were helping the minister at our church with a collating project, assembling books for a meeting to be held that day. Suddenly I heard a voice inside my head: “Go for a walk in the cemetery. Go now!” I looked up. “Did you hear that?” I asked my friends.
“Hear what?” my friends said.
“Never mind,” I said.
“Go for a walk in the cemetery. GO NOW!” Afraid of looking foolish in front of my friends, I did not mention the voice that apparently only I could hear. The voice was so compelling, so loving, and I felt so safe, that there was nothing I wanted more than to take a break from our task in the church library and go for a walk.
“I m going for a walk in the cemetery. I’ll be back in soon.”
“It’s a little gray and drizzly,” one friend said.
“I know.” Out I went.
The large, rambling cemetery that bordered the huge church on three sides was deserted. Wreaths and vases of flowers decorated many headstones, but not a person besides me was out. I wandered among the graves, enjoying the damp quiet of early spring. From a young age, I could feel the presence of God anytime I was in nature, and even in the chilly drizzly overcast, this day was no exception.
A lone car drove into the cemetery, stopping down the gravel road from where I walked. An old woman got out. As she walked away from her car I saw it begin to move, rolling backwards. The old woman reacted, racing toward the car door, and as the car’s back wheels slid down over a small bank, she disappeared from view.
I ran toward the car and saw a terrible sight—the old frail woman, her leg pinned under the wheel of the car sunk in the mud!
“Ma’am!” I yelled, running toward her. “I will get help! I will be right back! I will help you!”
Running blindly around the outside of the church, I stumbled inside, and found the meeting room full of clergy. “There is a lady in the cemetery! Pinned under her car! She needs help! Someone call an ambulance, please!”
There were blank looks around the boardroom table, until the light dawned and finally my own pastor asked, “Where?” as he and two other men got up to follow me.
We raced to the cemetery and I knelt down by the old woman, who was shaking and incoherent but still conscious. “It will be okay,” I said. “An ambulance is on its way. These men are here to help you.” The three men had jacked up the car and had pulled the woman out by the time the ambulance came. My next-door neighbor, a volunteer firefighter, was driving. They loaded her up and drove her to the hospital.
I sank to the ground, shaking and crying. I thought about what might have happened if I had not been there. She could have died afraid and alone in a deserted, rainy cemetery.
I found out later, from my neighbor, that the old woman survived, although bruised and battered, and she was able to go home in a few days. I never learned her name and never saw her again.
~Deborah J. Kinsinger
A Green and White Dixie Cup
Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot heal.
~Author Unknown
It happened on a Wednesday evening. I stood before the stove preparing supper for my husband and two-year-old son. One minute I was stirring buttered corn, and in the next, I felt the life of our ten-week-old embryo escape my body. My husband called the doctor, and as directed, he scooped up what was to be our second child in a paper cup and headed to the hospital.
Only an hour before, I had cradled this baby within me, and now he or she was being transported in a green and white Dixie cup. I held the cup tightly as I stared at this warm tiny life. Tears fell as I wondered what his or her face would have looked like and what his or her future might have held. After arriving at the hospital, I went through the normal procedures that follow a miscarriage. Soon afterwards, they sent me home to recuperate for the rest of the workweek. As much as I enjoyed my job as a secretary for the head nurses at a local hospital, I was relieved to get a break, both emotionally and physically.
On the Friday following my miscarriage I found myself alone at home, being pestered by one particular question, “Where is my baby?” I couldn’t help but wonder if the embryo was old enough to go to heaven or if he or she had simply vanished, never to be seen again. I believed in God but I didn’t know much about him then, and I knew nothing about the future of the baby we’d just lost. Questions about this baby’s whereabouts consumed my entire day.
When I returned to work the following Monday morning, Steve, my second cousin and chaplain-in-training, tapped on my window and asked, “When you have a minute, can you come down to my office?” He wasn’t wearing the happy-go-lucky smile I was used to seeing so I quickly made my way down the hallway to his office.
He shut the door and sat directly across from me. He shared how he was sorry to hear of our loss, but it was obvious there was more going on than just sympathy.
“Can I ask you something, Cathy?”
“Sure.”
“What was on your mind last Friday? I mean, were there any specific concerns you had that day?”
“Steve, I thought about only one thing on Friday. I wondered where my baby was.”
I’d barely finished my sentence before he began sobbing. I quietly sat on the red leather chair, confused by his tears.
“Here’s why I ask. I was on call last Friday night. It was a busy day in the ER so I decided to take a nap on one of the cots in the back room. At some point, I was startled. When I opened my eyes, I saw what appeared to be God standing in front of me. He was so real I felt like I could reach out and touch Him. He pointed and told me, ‘Go put Cathy’s mind at ease. Tell her the child is with me and she will see him one day.’ With that, I sat straight up on the cot. My clothes were soaked and dripping with sweat. My wife could tell you that I’m not a dreamer, and this was no dream. I’m still shaken from the experience.”
I’d barely opened my mouth to speak when Steve interrupted me.
“There’s one more thing, Cathy. God was holding a baby in his arms when he spoke to me.”
Tears streamed down my cheeks as I made my way back down the hall to my office that Monday morning. I recalled how I’d felt just minutes earlier—broken, sad, and full of misgivings. Although still sad, my questions and doubts began melting into peace and confidence. Because of the miraculous appearance that Friday night I now live with hopeful confidence.
I know now, without a doubt, that one day I will see the face of the tiny baby who once inhabited a green and white Dixie cup.
~Cathy S. Baker
Hope and Reality
There is a fine line between dreams and reality, it’s up to you to draw it.
~B. Quilliam
Disney World? We’re going to Disney World! Both my kids were beyond ecstatic while I sat there in shock. My brother had just given us our Christmas present: a trip to Disney World. I was a single mom, always broke. I didn’t even have a reliable car to make the long drive from Conyers, Georgia to Orlando, Florida. Before I could thank him, he stated, “There’s only one condition, I get to drive y’all there.”
Both my kids, then six and twelve, adored their uncle. He was still single, so we did a lot of fun stuff together. He was one of my best friends during some very tough years.
Four months later, the four of us piled into my brother’s new, red Ford Escort hatchback and off we went on our magical Disney vacation.
I was extremely tired and worn down. Working, taking care of the kids, constantly being broke, and still healing from a terrible divorce left me feeling hopeless most days. I felt like I was living in a dark tunnel with no end in sight. My lack of education kept me from getting a better paying job. I was thankful for t
he job I had, but it barely supported three people.
I’d already been through foreclosure and bankruptcy. I lived one paycheck away from eviction all the time. I longed for a break from everything.
Sometimes I’d wish there was a place where single moms like me could go live temporarily while getting specialized help. I needed an education, some counseling, help with budgeting, and a supportive environment that would help me get on my feet.
This trip came at a perfect time. Planning for it lit a flame underneath me, making me feel revived and refreshed before we even pulled out of the driveway.
We stayed at a wonderful resort that had a large pool with slides and diving boards where my twelve-year-old son played when we weren’t at Disney World. There was also a large playground near the pool that my daughter loved. I found my special place on the porch of an inviting out-building located between the pool and playground.
This building had a huge covered, wraparound porch with wooden rocking chairs all around. You could get fresh towels after swimming or a refreshing drink. Or you could simply sit on the porch out of the sun like I did.
This place was perfect because I could see both of my kids on either side and still talk to them while I sat in a rocker on this huge porch.
This was the first restful time I’d had in so long. I felt safe and at peace. My kids were playing happily. I sat and rocked, enjoying my surroundings, as the burdens I’d been carrying drifted away with the balmy breezes.
While sitting there wishing this moment wouldn’t end, I was startled by a vision. I saw a large house with a big wraparound porch and rocking chairs. I can remember to this day saying under my breath, “I wish other single moms who are hurting and in need could feel what I feel right now.” Then I thought, “There needs to be a place where struggling single moms can go for a break and receive help getting back on their feet.” Every time I’d sit in this spot while my kids played, the vision flooded my mind.