She was prettier in the dream.
I knew it was a dream as I stood on the balcony overlooking the sweeping view of the Los Angeles harbor.
My parents loved that view.
I turned and recognized the french doors leading into their condominium.
The door stuck slight on the thick carpeting, as always, when I pushed it open.
I cocked my head in surprise when the UCLA grandfather clock ticked in the wrong corner.
That clock stands in my son’s house.
But then in an unexpected mirror, I caught a glimpse of her and willed time to stop.
Surely if I didn’t move, I could freeze the moment and maybe get a good long look–like a draw of water after a long parched walk.
But then she came around the corner of the kitchen and smiled.
I moved slowly.
When I reached her, Mom pulled me close.
I nestled my face in the crook of her neck and sobbed.
We stood together until my crying was done.
When I stepped back to look at her again, she was gone.
Dad
But sitting before me was my father wearing his sky-blue polo shirt with UCLA written in gold script above the pocket.
Full of face and cheerful like I hadn’t seen him in so very long, he smiled in his old teasing way.
“Dad, what are we doing here?”
He gestured, and two energetic white poodles ran in–unheard of in their home–followed by two little girls and a realtor showing the condo to their mother.
I gazed about, puzzled. Hadn’t I packed up everything and moved it?
When the pups approached, I scratched their ears and smiled at the girls. “Would you like to see what my children loved about this place?”
I opened a secret cupboard that had never been there before, and found it stuffed with odds and ends–markers, an old family quilt, linens.
The girls ran off and I started pulling out items. This cupboard needed to be emptied if the condo was for sale.
When I looked up, my father had disappeared and my very-much-alive brother stood at the sink with a glass of water.
“I thought we sold this house a long time ago,” I said.
He shrugged. “We did.”
I felt the dream seeping away as they always do and tears slipping down my face as I woke.
I wanted to hold on to the vision, to bury my face in it, to savor it.
The happiest days
I miss my parents so very much.
When I began to sob, the kitten we adopted a month after my mother died, jumped on to the bed and yowled.
She’s a vintage cat now, 20 years old.
I wished I was still in the dream.
But I know why that dream of comfort came today.
A vision and Biddy Chambers
I’m writing a biography of Biddy Chambers and I’ve been working on the chapter immediately following Oswald’s death in 1917.
Biddy traveled to Luxor to mourn following the Cairo burial.
When 18 year-old Bessie Zwemer came to visit, they sat outside along the Nile and talked about Oswald.
He had been instrumental in Bessie’s spiritual growth. The daughter of missionaries whom Oswald had nicknamed Bulger was devastated God would have taken him.
As they sat in the lengthening dusk talking about Oswald, Bessie gasped. “Do you see him here just now?”
Biddy looked toward a nearby table. “Who?”
“Oswald, sitting at the table as natural as ever, though more radiant. He spoke to me. He said, ‘Bulger, let not your heart be troubled. It’s all right; you can’t understand God’s ways but get down into His love. Don’t lose your grip. Be radiant for Him.”
Biddy smiled sadly. She hadn’t seen anything, but Biddy told the girl she believed Bessie had seen a vision.
When my young assistant read that scene, she shook her head. “I don’t believe, theologically, there’s such a thing as ghosts, do you?”
No, but I explained loved ones can appear in dreams as a comfort to us.
Bessie thought she had seen a vision. Biddy knew the girl mourned and seeing what comfort it brought Bessie, Biddy agreed.
It was the loving thing to do.
I saw my late parents early this morning in a dream.
I’m still crying for missing them.
But I’m so glad they came and brought me comfort.
Really, isn’t that what sweet dreams are for?
Tweetables
Dreams and loved ones: for comfort. Click to Tweet
Grief and the comfort of dreams and visions. Click to Tweet
Mom and Dad tears–it was only a dream. Click to Tweet
What a wonderful, moving post, Michelle!
Theologically I don’t believe in ghosts either, but those I have seen did not share my skepticism.
Lol. I’ve been meaning to ask you about that ghost at the end of your book, Blessed are the Pure in Heart!
Sobbing and jealous. I haven’t dreamed of my father in a while.
I wish I had such vivid moving dreams as you. Unfortunately I do not dream very often,-or maybe I just don’t remember, but when I do. the dreams are mixed up and crazy. I would love to dream about my parents even if it makes me cry.
Yes. It was very helpful for me on a sad day. What a shame we can’t “will” those precious dreams
Thank you for yesterday’s post. I remembered it as I sobbed that I wanted my Mommy while processing some very old pain. Two years ago, I adopted a feral dog. She had never hears me cry, or seen me cry. She was puzzled. We have bonded well, so she came to me despite her confusion. I hugged her for all she was worth, thanking her for accepting me with all my shortcomings. She licked my hand. The pain I felt subsided and was replaced by the sense of peace I have come to know as “me”.
After my Mother passed, 17 years ago, I felt her with me many times, and my daughter did also. These days, when I see a car license plat with her initials I thank you for “sending me a message”. I saw such a license plate yesterday and knew it was there to comfort me as my dog had been earlier.
I love reminders like that. Every time I find a coin on the ground I think of my dad–who always found coins in unusual places! Blessings.