Not just a dream. Thousands upon thousands. I figure that even if I had only one dream each night (not true), the count would be well beyond 20,000 by now. And, yes, I did the math on that. Because it’s MATH, and math is its own kind of AWESOME. I will try to convince you of that in a later post.

Oh, yes, I am a dreamer. If you and I know each other, it is highly likely that I have dreamed something about you. Friends, family, acquaintances, famous people – they all find their way into these performances my brain puts on for me nightly. Seriously! It’s like watching a sitcom or a full-length movie! The problem is that no one has a ticket to see it but me, so the enjoyment ends there. No matter how funny or strange the dream, I rarely share the details because dreams can sound ridiculous in the retelling, and, well, things can get awkward.

I don’t think my friend since fifth grade needs to hear that she showed up on my porch and begged me to take all the extra eggs her hens had laid. Does she live on a farm in real life? Does she actually raise chickens? Doubt it.

Do you think I should tell Mariah Carey that I once found her living out of my 1973 Volkswagen bug – parked in my garage?

Should I remind George W. Bush about the day he (and Laura) stopped by my house and asked me for some sweet tea and a haircut?

Do you think Oprah wants to know about the time I managed to sneak into her home and then stood there at the edge of her gigantic indoor pool waiting for her to finish swimming laps so that I could ask her to help me find my sister I’ve never met? She started saying things like “I’m calling security” and “you’re a stalker” and “don’t you dare put your legs in this water” until I finally gave up.

You see how things could get horribly awkward, right? This is why I keep my crazy dreams to myself (for the most part).

So, yes, I am a dreamer. 

There was one dream I had that has impacted my life more than any other. Hands down. 

Now, this one took place a loooooong time ago. I was a four-year-old girl living in the tiny town of Howe, Texas. My father was off fighting in Vietnam; my stepmother was left alone to care for eight children. 

Although I was only a preschooler (I doubt that word had yet been coined – I believe the more technical term was “little kid“), my perception was that my world was not all butterflies and lollipops. Although I certainly never verbalized it (nor would have been able), I felt a sense of lack with a side of sadness. I suppose there is a feeling of “not quite enough” when a family of ten must be fed and clothed on an Air Force salary, but my “side of sadness” stemmed from a different source: conversations about my mother abandoning me and my brothers were held out in the open, so I felt I wore an “unwanted, unloved” label from a very early age. I’m sure no one else picked up on this because I could easily mask it with my daily routine of being a four-year-old.

And now to that life-changing dream:

I noticed it was raining outside and oh, how my little girl self longed to run and play in the rain and jump in puddles and feel the raindrops on my face, but I also knew there was absolutely zero chance of this happening. My stepmother was on high alert at the slightest hint of bad weather, so our only option ever was to stay safely ensconced in the house once the first drops of rain appeared.

Imagine my glee when I suddenly realized no one in the family was looking my way and that I could sneak my way out into the land of soft rain and endless possibilities (again, this is a dream). My escape was a clean getaway. I knew that being outside in the rain was forbidden, but clearly, my dream self was less concerned with obedience than my real-life self.

As I danced around and splashed in every puddle I could find, I noticed something odd. Instead of huge raindrops, the round things falling from the sky were actually COINS. I could not believe our fortune! Our family had hit the jackpot! No longer would we be scrambling to make ends meet! We would finally have ENOUGH. I shouted to my siblings to come help me gather this unexpected treasure, but no one could hear me. Of course, coins piling up on the ground might help ease the household budget strain, but it wouldn’t alleviate that general sense of lack I felt. Let’s just agree that the coins were symbolic of whatever help I needed.

(If this next thing has never happened to you while dreaming, then be prepared to think, “wow, she is completely WEIRD” – I will understand)

Somehow my brain has convinced itself that while dreaming about something that I would love to have in real life, if I can just hold on to it tightly enough in the dream, then it will surely follow me over into my wide-awake world. I have had zero success with this exercise, by the way.

So in this particular dream, I collected as many coins as my tiny hands could hold and clutched them tightly in hopes of presenting them to my family. 

I think you all can see where this is going.

It didn’t work. AT ALL.

So now four-year-old Lori is fully awake (and painfully aware of her empty hands) and feeling disheartened and dejected and deflated and disappointed (yes, all the D words). 

Suddenly, I HEARD A VOICE. 

I had no idea where the voice came from and I did not recognize the voice, but I very clearly heard this voice say to me:

“Don’t worry, Lori, it’s not always going to be this way.“

I told no one of the dream. Or my disappointment. Or the voice I heard. 

And although, at the time, I couldn’t completely grasp what had happened, I have no doubt whatsoever that the tender voice I heard was none other than the voice of the God of the universe speaking hope into the heart of a little girl in a small town in Texas.

I held on to that promise through many difficult years that followed, at times clinging to it like a life raft. Trusting that one powerful sentence to be true (although the source remained a mystery to me) brought me great comfort in the midst of sometimes great sorrow.

I still marvel that the Lord God, the Creator of everything, would speak to a young girl and make sure she had a sliver of hope that she could cling to until the day she surrendered her heart to Him and found her hope and satisfaction in Him. 

Oh friend, He is there for you. He loves you perfectly. He will speak hope into your heart just as He did mine. This is my prayer – that you would hear the voice of Almighty God whispering hope and love to you in the midst of whatever pain or sadness you are enduring.

August 26, 1979

Sunday morning

Mineral Wells, Texas

How can 38 years have passed when the memories of this day are still so fresh in my mind?

I was a 16-year-old girl embarking upon my senior year of high school the very next day. That should have been enough excitement to keep my mind occupied, but instead I was engulfed with questions of “what now” and “where will I go” and “is there a God and does He know about me” – not the usual thoughts of a teenager on a Sunday morning.

I walked to the only church familiar to me – one that an aunt had occasionally taken me to when I was younger. I wore the only dress I owned, which was the same one I had worn to my father’s funeral seven months ago. My shoes were already scuffed, so I felt no obligation to be careful with them – I kicked every rock that I felt like kicking as I ambled along the streets. If you had asked 16-year-old Lori how far it was to the church, she may have guessed three miles or so. Thanks to Google Maps, I can now see that it is 1.4 miles – not too far. I remember hoping that no one from school would drive past and recognize me. Would they wonder why I was walking instead of driving? Would they wonder why I was wearing a dress instead of my usual jeans and a T-shirt?

I couldn’t allow the potential for embarrassment to thwart my plan. I had been making my way to this church for two months in my quest to find out if there might be a God. As I walked, I decided this would be my final trip.

Today was the day for giving up. I had no idea where I might turn next, but if I did not find some shred of hope to cling to on this morning, then I would close the door on this part of my journey.

As I slipped through the doors of the church, I was careful to not draw attention to myself. I felt some weird sort of shame for not having been in church all these years, BUT LET ME BE VERY CLEAR: that shame was not from God! Instead, I suppose it came from my preconceived notions about “good people go to church” or something like that. I don’t know! I was a teenager! Who knows where I got my ideas?!

When my summer quest to “try out church” began, I was so convinced that I would be singled out and mocked by the regular churchgoers that I would skulk into the very back row of the pews. I felt unworthy to sit any closer to the front – I truly believed that I did not deserve to be there. Isn’t that ridiculous?! As I returned to church Sunday after Sunday, I felt perhaps a little more “worthy” and I would allow myself to move up one pew each week. ONE PEW EACH WEEK. Again, RIDICULOUS.

On this particular Sunday morning, I decided I would take a huge leap forward and bravely planted myself on the fourth pew from the front. I figured I would go for it since it would be my last venture into the sanctuary. I had nothing to lose! Also, I was very curious to know what people said to the preacher at the end of the service when they went forward and shared hushed conversations with him. Yes, I absolutely planned on eavesdropping. I needed answers, people!

Even in that crowd of people, I felt completely alone. No family at home, no advocate, no relief from the excruciating pain. Alone and terrified for whatever the future held. Utterly hopeless.

I glanced around and recognized more than a few faces – some who were customers on my father’s route (he was a mail carrier). I was sure that they knew he had taken his own life – how could they not know?! My grief was compounded by the fact that no one spoke to me at church or acknowledged my family’s situation – which (for me) added to the stigma of suicide I felt I was wearing like a scarlet letter. Looking back, I realize that perhaps they actually did NOT know who I was and probably didn’t know what to say to this teenage girl who silently slipped in and out of church each week. I was not yet old enough to realize that, most likely, everyone there was simply engrossed in their own thoughts and lives and didn’t intentionally ignore me. I’m sure I didn’t seem too approachable!

(Please note: I am not sharing this part of my story as a way of saying “shame on you, people” or “poor me” – only to convey how someone who had no knowledge of God or the truth about Him felt when trying to find Him)

So there I sat in my self-appointed position of “worthiness” – a mere four pews from the front of the church. Although I had “graduated” to the fourth row, I didn’t feel any more informed or hopeful than when I had launched my search earlier in the summer. With no real knowledge of God or the Bible, I was unable to make sense of the sermons, and there were so many unfamiliar words flying around that I couldn’t decode the language. This lack of understanding exacerbated my sense of despair.

As I sat there pondering my options for survival and for finding security, I felt as though I was spinning out of control toward the horizon, and that once I reached the edge (yes, I do realize I could never actually reach the edge of the horizon), I would be hurtling through space and lost in nothingness. I WAS A MESS.

All I wanted was to be loved. 

And to have a sense of security. 

And to know that I mattered. 

And for my heart to not be broken forever.

Isn’t that what we all want?

Discouragement enveloped me and I totally gave up on finding hope of any kind. As I sat in the pew, I wrestled with my thoughts of desperation – telling myself that this road was obviously a dead end.

(I will do my best to convey what happened in those next few moments, but human words are inadequate. Although I did not see with my human eyes or hear with my human ears, I will relate it as if I did BECAUSE IT WAS JUST THAT REAL TO ME)

Suddenly, it was as if Jesus Christ Himself was sitting on the third pew! RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME!!!

He turned around to face me and put His arm up on the back of the pew.

JUST TO TALK TO ME.

Jesus:

Lori! Hey, it’s Me! I am what you’ve been looking for!

Lori:

**speechless**  (with mouth agape, no doubt)

Jesus:

I will be your father, your mother, and your best friend!

(At this point, 16-year-old Lori is completely awestruck and thoroughly convinced that everyone nearby MUST be witnessing this spectacular moment, so she scans the crowd for any sign of a reaction to hearing the voice of God. I actually thought that if I yelled out, “Are y’all hearing this?! Do y’all see what’s happening over here?!” that they would all respond with a resounding “YES!!!”)

Lori:

How??? How do You do that?

(Yes, the fact that He knew my exact thoughts and the desires of my heart had slipped right past me in the moment)

Jesus: 

All you do is come to Me. I will do the rest! Just come to Me. I am here waiting for you!

Lori:

Okay! Yes! Yes, I will! Just give me a few weeks to clean up a little and then, yes, I will come to You.

(I did not know a single verse from the Bible, much less anything remotely related to biblical doctrine, but somehow I knew without having to be told that I felt terribly unclean in the presence of a holy God. The fact that I would have been considered a “good girl” in the eyes of the world – because I generally obeyed adults and obeyed the rules – was useless to me as I sat before the One Who made me and knew me. Although I knew nothing of Adam or original sin or scripture that tells us we are all born with sinful natures, I felt like I needed cleansing. I just KNEW.)

Jesus:

No, no, no. That isn’t how it works. There is no way you could possibly clean yourself up on your own. You come to Me just as you are.

Lori:

**silence mixed with much consternation while trying to process this brand-new information**

Jesus:

Okay – this will help you understand:  imagine the dirtiest dish you’ve ever had to clean. Baked-on food. Left soaking overnight. Nothing will get that dish clean! Isn’t that how you feel right now?

Lori:

Yes! Exactly like that!

Jesus:

And that is exactly how you come to Me – just as you are. Just like that dirty dish. But I am the One Who can clean you up – I am the main dishwasher. You come to Me like that dirty dish, and I put you in My dishwasher. But in My dishwashing cycle, it isn’t Cascade and scalding water that cleans you . . . it’s My blood. You are the dirty dish, My blood washes over you and cleanses you, the dishwasher stops, and I take you out and present you to God. “Father, here is Your new daughter, Lori, washed perfectly clean by My blood.”

Lori:

Is that what it means to be “saved”? I’ve heard them use that word a lot.

Jesus:

That’s what it means!

Lori:

Why wouldn’t anyone tell me that?

Jesus:

Who better to tell you than Me?

And with that, I bolted from the pew and made my way to the preacher down front. Fortunately, this coincided with the end of the church service, so I was spared the embarrassment of being escorted out for causing a scene.

With tears streaming down my cheeks and my gangly arms thrust heavenward (again, I knew nothing of how Christians were “supposed” to act), I cried out, “I’M READY TO ACCEPT JESUS!”

Not one thought given as to how loud my voice might be in this moment. 

No wondering if the people might be gawking at me from the pews. 

Not one moment of second-guessing myself as to whether I followed protocol or not.

In that moment, absolutely nothing in the universe mattered to me except that I had found everything that my heart had ever longed for! The God Who is big enough to speak all creation into being with just His voice chose to make Himself small enough to sit with a young girl so that she could understand His vast love for her and His sacrifice for her that meant she could spend forever with Him.

I had been adopted! Former orphan, newly adopted! I basked in the boundless love of my Heavenly Father – the One Who would never fail me, never disappoint me, never abandon me, never hurt me. I had finally come home to my perfect Father.

I will never get over it.

He is my everything. ❤️

I have mulled over the idea of writing for a while now. Okay, for years now. For some reason, trying to get started feels exactly like I am 13-year-old Lori again – perched on the high dive, not sure I am ready to jump.

BUT HERE I GO LIKE I KNOW WHAT I’M DOING

By the way, I would absolutely love to hear any tips or helpful hints you could share with me. I am brand new to this world of blogging and have much to learn. I welcome all criticism – both constructive and constructive. 😁