The Men Who Shot Me

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It’s quarter past four in the morning. I’m not sure why I’m up. Was it the dream I just had? Or the headache I both took to bed with me, and woke up with?

In the dream, my wife and I are vacationing I’m not sure where. She’s checking us in, but somehow I’m already in the room.

Two men are there.

With guns.

Somehow I have one, too. Words are exchanged; I ask what they want.

They answer with a hail of bullets.

I return fire. Most of their bullets miss, but some strike home. I’m shot in the chest.

My shots are true, and the assailants fall dead at my feet.

I’m shot, but alive. I need to find my wife, tell her I’m going to the hospital.

I do, and walk next door to it.

And Iike was like they know me, know what I need, acknowledge my wounds. All the paperwork is ready and waiting. I sign in, am escorted to surgery.

It is a success.

Lisa finds me. We are together, and stronger than ever.

The assailants failed to take me out.

I’ll let you take what meaning you will from my dream, but to me it’s clear:

The assailants are the schemes of the wicked one who seeks to sideline me. I am wounded by them, but able to find healing in the hospital. To me, that hospital is the Wild At Heart retreat I’m going to next week. They are expecting me, know my name, know my wounds (the shot to the chest is my heart), and have the healing I need.

Afterwards, after I return home, Lisa and I find each other again, and are stronger than ever.

That is what I think my dream means. The strange thing is that I don’t usually remember my dreams. I don’t want to claim it’s from God, but it sure seems to be.

Have you ever had such vivid dream, one that confirmed you were on the path you were supposed to be? Do you remember your dreams?

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