The Memory of a Dream

On ministry, memories, Heaven, and cats.

Apologies for the slowness of my newsletters over the past few weeks. I’m currently consulting in multiple abuse cases and helping a few churches develop safety policies. While I find it to be incredibly rewarding work, it’s definitely intense and demanding. Which reminds me, if you’re a paid subscriber to this newsletter, I want to thank you for supporting – not just my writing – but my work advocating for children and abuse victims in the church. Your contributions help cover the cost of coffee, printer ink, website hosting, travel, and a host of other expenses.

Usually, I have spaces between cases, lulls in communication, or slow periods as we wait for police investigations to conclude. Every so often there’s a season of overwhelming need, as I now find myself in. So, rather than write about anything heavy, I thought it would be fun to tell you about one of my favorite dreams. But in order to tell you about my dream, I must go even farther back, and tell you about my first cat, Mittens.

I first met Mittens in the summer of 2004. She was a malnourished tabby who had wandered into my family’s backyard in Clear Lake, Texas. At the time, I was a teen in an abusive home, and she was a stray covered in fleas. My mom got some cat food and we set up an old dog crate on our patio with towels and water. At first, she was extremely suspicious, but over the next few weeks, she became accustomed to sheltering on our porch and eating the food we left out.

As I watched her through the kitchen window, she’d stare back at me with her unblinking green-and-gold owl eyes. Over time, she grew more comfortable and unbothered by my presence. Eventually, I tied a string to the door of the open dog crate, strung it through a window in the house, and lowered the blinds. For several hours, I crouched on the floor, peering through the shades, waiting for Mittens to appear. Finally, she snuck into the crate for food, I pulled the rope, the crate door closed, and I brought my tiny friend into the AC.

Over the coming weeks, we got her cleaned up, vaccinated, and settled into a corner of my bedroom. She was frightened, but slowly got used to being petted and held. Late one night, after a few months of patient effort, she climbed onto my bed and snuggled down beside me. I still remember the feeling of her warm little body, curled up against me, purring contentedly.

That little cat was my friend through some of the darkest periods of my life. She was the reason I didn’t commit suicide several times. She was the reason I didn’t run away from home. Into my early marriage and through PTSD, she was always there, calm and quiet, cuddly and comforting, and perfectly innocent despite everything she and I had both been through.

When I was about six months pregnant with my first baby, Mittens developed cancer in her jaw. She never got to meet my children, but before she died, she would cuddle against my belly and purr as the baby kicked her. Letting her go was incredibly hard. And that’s why this dream is so special.

I dreamed that I was barefoot, standing in the middle of a clear pond. The stones beneath my feet were smooth, round, and different shades of brown and gray. As I looked up, I saw more ponds, crystal clear, separated by little hills of tall green grass and wildflowers.

I realized that I was in a clearing in the midst of a great forest. The trees around me were thick and green, and here and there one blossomed with flowers. The sky above was blue, but though the world was bright as day, there was no sun to be seen.

As I puzzled over where I was and how I got here, there came a rustling among the trees. Two huge cats, the size of elephants, emerged from the forest and came through the clearing toward me. One was a tabby with green-and-gold eyes.

“Mittens!” I exclaimed.

Her eyes smiled at me, and her purr rippled through the air. The other cat was white with splotches of orange, and I recognized him as my other cat, Mr. Bingley.

“You’re alive!” I said to her. “And you’re OK! How did we get here? And where are we?”

She didn’t answer audibly, but it was as if I could read her thoughts. She wanted me to ride on her back, so she laid down on her belly and let me climb up. Before I knew it, we were dashing at an incredible speed through the trees, weaving in and out and leaping over rocks and holes. In breaks between branches, I could sometimes glimpse flashes of valleys and mountains, rivers and rocks, but I couldn’t make out what lay beyond the woods. Bingley sprang beside her, matching her pace, quick as a leopard.

Finally, she slowed to a trot, and then a walk, and we approached the edge of a rocky cliff. The forest spread wide beneath us and all around us, but from that high place we could see on forever. There, in the distance, lay a bright and peaceful valley. In that valley, shining like a star, stood a great kingdom, white as a pearl and as tall as a mountain. That’s when I realized that all the light in that world seemed to emanate from the kingdom.

“Is that Heaven?” I asked.

“Yes,” Mittens thought.

“Can we go there?” I asked.

“I can,” she answered, “but you must go back. It is not time for you to come Home yet.”

And then I woke up. I was lying in the dark in my bed, Mittens was buried beneath the grass outside, and Mr. Bingley was curled by my feet. I picked him up, hugged him, and cried, and he purred in my arms until I fell back asleep.

I don’t know what you think about dreams. I certainly don’t think we should derive our beliefs, theology, or philosophy from them. However, I do think that in my time of grief, God worked through a dream to give me comfort. I hope that in some way it comforts you too.