I dreamt I went on a trip to a tiny country in South America. It was hot. Jungle-like. And in a state of civil unrest. Rebel fighting at all times of the day and night . . . but mostly night. We were fairly safe in our hotel at the heart of the city. In fact as long as you were hidden away in your home within the city walls, you would probably live to see morning. Most of the fighting was happening in the jungle on the outskirts of town.
Stacy was with me. We had picked this particular place to visit because a friend of ours was working there, doing missionary work in the outlying villages. During the day, when the jungle was less dangerous, we would go with him to these villages and help the sick, work with the children. Gut-wrenching scenes. Terrible scenarios. Very real. The suffering was endless. I woke up crying at point, my heart broke as I held a small child as she fought for her two last breaths and then drifted away.
Falling back to sleep, I found myself in the same village, hours later. Dusk was approaching. I sensed danger as the paths back to the city darkened and I knew if we were going to leave, we had to do it now. I couldn’t find Stacy, couldn’t find our missionary friend. Every second the sky darkened further and the sounds of jungle grew louder. I had heard stories of what the rebel fighters did to women in the villages. I had witnessed the carnage with my own eyes. But what they did to those women was nothing compared to what they would do to a white woman. Death would be too easy. They would take me to their camp and keep me alive for months at the very least, years, more likely. It was a frightening situation to consider. I was terrified. I found Stacy in a hut with an old woman, who was dying with some disease like malaria. She had lost track of time, but didn’t seem concerned at all that it was getting dark.
I was literally pulling at her sleeve trying to get her to hurry and come along, and she was chatting with people and stopping to give hugs and kisses, quite unconcerned. Infuriating. Just as we got to the path, machine-gun fire broke out. There were flashes coming from both sides of the path. We dropped to the ground and covered our heads with our hands. The shooting went on for minutes without a break. When it ended I raised my head and looked at the path. Through the haze of smoke and jungle steam I could see a young girl from the village standing on the path. She was about 13 or 14 years old and had been sent into the city to deliver an important message earlier in the day. I guessed she was returning and got caught in the fire. She had her hands up in a show of peace and surrender and was slowly sneaking along the path toward the village. I was terrified for her, terrified of seeing something happen to her. But she edged her way toward us without incident. For now at least, the jungle was quiet.
When she reached us, she kneeled down, put a finger to her lips to hush us (Stacy was being so loud! Not a good sneaker.) The girl pointed toward the path, showed us how she had held up her hands and urged us to go. I was practically paralysed with fear. My body felt like it was weighted with bricks. My legs and arms were heavy to move and lift. Stacy, on the other hand, (maybe she knew it was a dream) scrambled to her feet, threw her hands above her head and started walking toward the city, very calmly. I watched her back move away from me. I counted every step. I held my breath waiting for the sound of gunfire. She disappeared from sight without a sound.
I took a deep breath and proceeded, cringing at every step, expecting at any moment to be knocked off my feet by shots or rebel boys or something even worse. My head seemed to be pounding with my heart beat. This went on for a really long time until finally I rounded the last turn and could see the city gates before me. The last 100 feet, and Stacy was nowhere to be seen. I felt some relief that she at least had made it back safely. And I felt some anticipation and hope that I would too. Each step took me closer to the gate and my hotel room and a hot bath and a good glass of wine. My spirits were starting to soar. Almost there. 80 feet. 75. 50. 45. 30 . . . and the unmistakable sound of a guns cocking. Loud. I froze. Turning my head slowly to the right I saw a boy about 13 years old dressed completely in black from head to toe. Only the whites of his eyes were really visible . . . and the barrel of the gun pointed straight at me. I swung my head to the left and saw another boy about 13 years old dressed completely in khakis from head to toe. The barrel of his gun was also pointed straight at me. I realised they were aiming for each other but I was in the way. I would be caught in the crossfire. If I moved would they let me pass? Or would my movement trigger the gunfight? I didn’t know. But I knew if I stayed there I wouldn’t stand a chance . . . I stepped.
And a brilliant flash of white light exploded in my brain. It was the brightest light I had ever seen. Beautiful. Blinding. I thought about Mom and Dad and my sisters and brother and the kids, especially Samuel. I could hear Samuel saying, “It’s a beautiful day of raining!”
And then I woke up.
Mood: spirited
Drinking: water, water, everywhere
Listening To: Bryan Adams, Do I Have to Say the Words?
Hair: could it possibly get any thicker?!
A work in progress 
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