Dream Houses

When does God sleep? It is a wonderful childlike question with an equally simple answer: He doesn’t. Today my morning advent reading declared, “and he waits anxiously for us to wake up.” I believe in his excitement, playfulness and care that often God does not wait for us to wake from slumber, but instead whispers to us through our dreams.


Last night was a major dream night for me. I think most nights are, in fact, filled with dreams, but this morning I chose to lay still for a while and tend my dreams—to listen and ponder what they had to say. This particular dream world was filled with houses of all shapes, sizes and impressions. While the dreams did not seem remotely spiritual in the moment, I cannot get away from the holy images that fill my mind as I write in the light of day.

The first house was made of white brick. It had been stripped down to the bare bones, but was still standing after what looked like an internal bomb or blast of fire had exploded. The walls were charred with soot, but the house stood firmly on its solid foundation. It was truly a house built on rock.

Next came the house with many rooms. A feast was being prepared but the food I offered was not well received. I had the sense that what I brought was not my best. It seemed to be an afterthought as if I were just trying to get by with a minimal offering. Now, in the waking hours, I am reminded of the joy I experience when I do bring my best and don’t worry about how others will receive my gifts. I am warmed with the sense of my complexity as a woman with many rooms in my house. Some days I can fill the largest banquet hall and other days my best may more closely resemble a simple broom closet. There are always many rooms waiting to be explored.

Another house seemed very comfortable and it was a place I longed to linger. In the yard was a magnificent fruit tree bearing huge berries. This is an image that has become closely identified with me in my dreams, collage work and poetry. ‘I am the luscious berry, bursting with flavor.’ This is an image that delights me.

Still one more house spoke of large ugly beams and cold concrete floors that were not visually welcoming. There seemed to be an urgency to cover up what was not aesthetically pleasing. I am aware, however, that the beams and concrete are foundational to the strength of the structure. If they are taken away, the house will collapse into a heap.

In the final house, there was a choice to be made. I could enter the yard through the gate or I could go into the garage. There was a man leading the way who gave off the essence of good and evil simultaneously. The first time I pondered this dream I thought he was Jesus, but now it feels like he represents the holy and evil that reside in me.

Using the gate at first glance appeared to be a poor choice because it would cause me to be soaked by a sprinkler. The path through the garage was safe and dry but it was a dead end. There was no way out, so I would remain trapped and shut away from the world. A second look at the narrow gate revealed the sprinkler water to be holy and representative of baptism. Often I wake up from dreams before I feel like I am at the end. The delightful result of this dream is that I did not awaken before I made the choice to get wet and experience the water’s cleansing.

God is an amazing God of creativity and infinite possibility. He speaks to me in my dreaming hours and gives me the choice of whether or not I listen to him in the waking time. He offers many houses in which to live. The rooms are always there for me, but sometimes it takes a secret passageway to enter (like something discovered through a dream.) I am not always aware of the door that sits right before me. It reminds me of another Lucy stumbling through the wardrobe that led to Narnia—a magical other world. I am so glad that God does not sleep; that he is mindful of me all hours of the day and night. I hope I will choose to remain mindful of him.

“He will not let you stumble and fall; the one who watches over you will not sleep.” Psalm 121:3

photos by bill hughlett

Passel of Pups

a passel of puppies.
cozy and warm.
keeping each other close.
all arms and legs and snuggly warmth.
adolescent pups, warming each other with friendship & care.

one small pup will not enter the pile.
he sits cold and lonely to the side,
whimpering on his own.
another nudges him toward the heap, but
he is stubborn and weak all at the same time.
he cannot see the warmth and healing to be found in the pile.

a passel of puppies.
all adolescent arms and legs.
words neither needed nor wanted.
their warmth & care speaking volumes.
all snuggled up, piled upon, tumbling over each other.

five young pups. a perfect litter.
goofy, cozy. warm & caring.
nurturing their own.
eyes not yet open, instinctually looking out for each other.

a passel of puppies.
cozy and warm.
keeping each other close.

Memory demands so much

---by denise levertov


Memory demands so much,
it wants every fiber
told and retold.
It gives and gives
but for a price, making you
risk drudgery, lapse
into document, treacheries
of glaring noon and a slow march.
Leaf never before
seen or envisioned, flying spider
of rose-red autumn, playing
a lone current of undecided wind,
lift me with you, take me
off this ground of memory that clings
to my feet like thick clay,
exacting gratitude for gifts and gifts.
Take me flying before
you vanish, leaf, before
I have time to remember you,
intent instead on being
in the midst of that flight,
of those unforeseeable words.




photo by bill hughlett


Someone very close to me nearly died this weekend. “Memory demands so much” speaks volumes. Giving and giving can feel like drudgery (Is it ever enough?) Caught in the mire. A slow march. I have been here before. Stuck. Hurting. Sad and Angry. Seeking communication. Yearning. And I am ever reminded of the little girl who forged her way on her own. Alone.

Leaf, take me away. Let me soar high above the pain with you. The trails of a leaf are like the roads on a map. The paths of our journey. Slow march in the heat of the day—the heat of life’s battle. Or bundled, cold and shivering in the dark of night. Praying for comfort and sweet release in whatever form it might take. Death? Peace? Are they one in the same? Will we only find peace when we finally get to heaven? Or is heaven right here on earth and we are privileged to catch small glimpses of it throughout our earthly lives?

“Memory demands so much.” Fragile child on an emergency room table. Teen with eyes rolled back in head. Comatose? Dead? Witnessing the dance toward death—a slow painful march. Memory demands so much.

Can I remember my flight with God holding me in his arms? It demands so much. The hard times seem to flow easily through my brain—present and at the forefront. But can I remember the glory? Those brief moments when I have been known by another? Moments in community battling for the glory of God?

Evil wants us to be overtaken by the dark moments—the emergency room lights—the harsh sunlight of day—the agony of watching a child leave, again and again.

I want memory to turn to the good times. Riding with my daughter on a ferry. Laughing with my son in the car. I did not know how swiftly the time would fly. Memory demands so much. I have been here before—on the edge—on the verge of losing—being left—bereft of God. I feel the rhythm; the moving away, that has become so familiar.

Memory demands so much.

Desert & Darkness

photo by bill hughlett

Desert & Darkness. Is there a difference between being in the desert and living in the darkness? Both seem to include waiting. Waiting is something that is welcomed and revered during this season of Advent. Are desert and darkness the same states of being? Is the difference between darkness and light defined simply by the attitude with which they are received? Where is light found during desert times? And, for what were the desert fathers searching? Were they barren and bereft of God’s holy presence? Or were they closer to God because of the barrenness?

Two books come to mind: Alan Jones’ Soul Making and the devotional book, Streams in the Desert. Both of these are reminiscent of a moving toward something. It may be painful in the midst of the experience, but the message is hope for something less painful—something more solid on which to stand. Does having hope mean we want to leave the desert or need to leave in order to find solace?

What has prompted this line of questioning? It must go back to old fundamental roots that clash with my present aversion to a theology that insists if we are not “happy” then we are not walking “properly” with the Lord. This was kicked off by the question “Are you in a ‘desert place’ in your spiritual life right now? If so, what are some things you could do to re-kindle your excitement with the Lord?” I think the words “if so” and “re-kindle” tell me being in the desert or the darkness is not o.k. And thus I come back to the question, are darkness and desert the same space? I believe, the overriding question is: how will we choose to receive God in those places of difficulty in our lives?

This advent season has brought many reminders that darkness is seasonal. (Seasonal in an ebb and flow sort of way in our lives, not just the physical moving toward darkness as we approach the winter solstice.) Darkness provides us with a time of rest and a time of waiting. Thomas Moore in Dark Nights of the Soul says darkness is often associated with or labeled as depression. It is something we want to get out of or away from. I, however, have found periodic solace this year in the darkness. Therefore, I was bothered when it was suggested to “re-kindle” my time with the Lord because that indicates I am not meeting God in the darkness (or desert). The opposite, however, has been true because in many ways I have been met more distinctly in the darkest places than I have in the shining light of day or good times.

So once again I return to the question: Are desert and darkness the same place? And, is it all about the attitude with which we view them? I do not believe either place to be void of God even though at times we may not feel His presence. Maybe it all is about the attitude. Maybe it is about our personal relationship with God. Maybe it’s about unearthing our own rhythm in the darkness and finding our oasis in the desert. Maybe, it’s something I will ponder awhile longer. What do you think?

Six Senses of God

No old man in flowing robes and long white beard for me. My God looks like the wind, the rain, the sun & moon. He is creation all around--both seen and imagined.

Rainstorm beating on a tin roof & brook gently babbling through the forest. The laughter of children and screams of childbirth. Tinkling bells and booming gongs. These are the voices of Majesty.

God smells like spring after the first rain. Roses, old and fragrant. Wet dog and fresh baked bread. Homemade cookies & pie.

Taste the sweet nectar dripping from fresh berries. Complexities of a gourmet meal. Chinese food and take out pizza. Communion wine. God pours flavor into life.

Experience God with the touch of a newborn’s bottom, a soft kitten or the bark of a gnarled tree. The suede of a child’s head and the crepe of a woman’s weathered hand.

A presence that embodies pain and sorrow, joy and laughter. A tugging of the heart and a whisper in the ear. The flutter of stomach and the pounding of heart. Our God is the feast of eyes and the fullness of soul.