Are dreams real?

In a dream I cried. I hate crying.

I was crying that it felt lonely on my own, that the rocks I thought were boulders were only sand, which developed the epiphany that I would run away. I began to pack my blue suitcase. I was so good at this--packing I mean. Toothbrush, contact solution, jeans, T-shirts, socks, a few pictures, my Bible. I had done this many times before. My parents moved from one rented home to another, from one state to another, and after high school I moved from Montana to Iowa to Alaska to South Dakota to New Mexico and now to Indiana.

All this so far is true.

My dream continued.

"Why do you suppose that is?" My gradmother faded into the background.

"Why what is?" I was still throwing clothes and books into my suitcase.

She stepped forward. "Why do you think you need to run?"

I stopped.

"I enjoy being by myself." And then, "I'm better off that way."

Then, like only Grandma could, she said bluntly, "You think that running away is your only way to gain independence? You think that being on your own qualifies you for adulthood? You think that stepping away from the pressure of the here and now will make it go away? You think that when you have a job to do and you feel insufficient that Christ can't be sufficient for you?"

I stopped packing.

"What's in your heart, Laurissa? You claim to be independent. You claim adulthood. But you are scared, and you're supplementing whatever you believe is missing with glorified dreams of running away."



Bam.