Two weeks ago I had a dream. A totally disgusting dream. And there were four major components to this dream. 1.) A massively gruesome blob of something that looked like intestines covered in thick bloody goo. 2.) A very terrified Brianna, clinging to the aforementioned blob of vile. 3.) A solo search for a “doctor”. 4.) A very calm, gentle “doctor”.
The dream went something like this. I was in some other state, or country, I’m not sure what. But it wasn’t Minnesota. I was there alone and for a very specific purpose, of which I did not know entirely (I knew in part, but that part was a very small piece to a much larger puzzle). I was walking the streets of this unknown place, doing what I would normally do when out on a solo adventure – exploring. I was strolling through something like a market place. It was buzzing with vendors and people and culture. Suddenly, in the middle of the market place, a massive blob of what appeared to be small intestines fell out my vagina. It was so totally disgusting and it freaked me out. I caught the nasty before it could hit the ground. And I held onto it, terrified to let it go. Immediately I went into a mental state of dramatic shock. “What the F is this?!! Am I dying?! This blob needs to be put back inside of me!” I was shaking. I walked from vendor to vendor, holding the blob of intestinal spaghetti in my shaking hands and desperately asking for help finding a doctor.
But no one was able to help.
Finally, one vendor said, “We don’t have doctors here. But there is a lady, she’s not really a doctor. She might be able to help. You’ll have to make the journey to her office.”
So, I began the journey. I climbed uphill, over walls of boxes and various hinderances of which I cannot remember. But it was a trek, and a challenging one at that. I was alone, waddling through an unknown territory, clutching my pile of gooey intestinal spaghetti, looking for what may or may not be a doctor.
I climbed up, and up and up. It seemed I would never make it to the top. And over walls of boxes. Just before I came to the end of my rapidly fraying hope rope, I reached the door of the lady who would help me. I barged in.
“Help! Please help me!” (I stood in front of her. Holding my spaghetti in the palm of my hands between my legs). “This pile of stuff fell out of me! I think something is broken, please, please put it back in!”
She peered up at me over the rim of her glasses, looked at my spaghetti blob, and very calmly and gently said, “Come back in an hour.”
I was pissed! Come back in an hour?! Don’t your realize the state of horror I’m in! Clearly this goo needs to be put back in and it needs to be done RIGHT NOW!
But, I accepted her orders and left the office. I didn’t know what to do, so I just walked around the market place. And with each step I took, my terror decreased. The dramatic anxiety and fear that surged through my body began to calm and quiet. And the more calm I grew, I noticed my spaghetti blob getting smaller. I continued walking, allowing the calm to fill me and take away my gooey blob. When an hour had passed, I returned to the “doctor”. But by the time I got there, the blob of vile was gone. And I was totally chill. And she just smiled at me. The end.
Insane, right? I swear I didn’t eat any medicinal brownies before bed.
The next day at breakfast, Cynthia and John (the couple with whom I’m currently living) were exchanging dreams. Cynthia was excited to hear John’s dream, for she just finished doing some research on dream interpretation. [Hell yes!] Dream interpretation – I had to get her take on my crazy pile of gooey spaghetti. So, over a muffin and cinnamon roll, I divulged my dream.
I’ll spare you the smaller details. But here’s the gist of what they came up with.
The gooey blob of intestinal spaghetti was representative of my singleness. See, one of the things the Spirit is gently revealing to me is that I’ve taken the contentment God has given me in my singleness and turned it into an idol. Instead of relying on God to protect and care for my heart, I turned to my singleness. When you’re single there’s less of a chance of getting your heart demolished. And that makes me feel safe.
And the spaghetti didn’t just fall out of my vagina, It was birthed out of me. For it to have fallen out would have been an accident. But this was not accident. It was as though I was put under and a gentle midwife [God] induced delivery. And just as I woke, the baby idol was already out. Subconsciously, I suppose was ready to get rid of this baby idol. But I couldn’t do the hard work of labor, so a midwife was required to do the heavy pushing for me. You see, I truly believe God wanted me to deliver this thing. Why? To make room for new life I guess. To birth something it so give life. But I didn’t birth this baby idol of singleness to give it life. I birthed it to let it finally die. I birthed it to make room for something new.
I learned that I clung to my gooey blob for so long because I was terrified to let it go. In my dream, I thought I needed to keep my intestinal spaghetti because I wasn’t sure of who I’d be without it. I birthed it out, but I also wanted it back inside of me. Somehow the two contrasting desires can coexist.
And the weird doctor lady? She was God, of course. She was my healer and also the unseen midwife. She wasn’t surprised by my baby idol, nor did she shake her head in judgment as if to say, “You know, if you never let this baby idol grow in the first place, you wouldn’t have to be here.” She didn’t say anything like that at all. She simply acknowledge my distress (knowing all along there was nothing seriously wrong) and gave me a prescription specifically written for me – a little time and a stroll around the market place. For in time I’d realize this birth was actually a good thing. A beautiful thing.
I should also tell you that the hour she gave me was significant. You see, my sister told me before I began my West Coast Pilgrimage that I can be praying for restoration to happen quickly (there are major things in my life that desperately need some restoration). She said she was praying that over me. I thought I could do the same. So I began praying. Lord bring restoration. Bring it quickly. But bring it thoroughly. (I don’t want to rush through the beautifully painful process of restoration, for I want it to do it’s thing. Fully. Completely. But I also don’t want it to last longer than necessary. I’m learning that as I walk the process, my humility and submission to the Spirit’s work is directly linked to the amount of time in which restoration can occur.)… One short hour. That’s all it took for my consuming fear to subside and the pile of nasty spaghetti to fade away.
Isn’t that crazy? Turns out, God does speak through dreams and visions. I’ve always believed that.
I still have a lot of work to do. I just finished reading Donald Miller’s latest work, Scary Close, and I came to learn that I am more terrified of an intimate, romantic relationship than I thought. I love my singleness. But I also need to take it off the idolatry shelf and trust Jesus to care for my heart. And so, I gave birth. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t terrified. I am. I suppose that’s the thing about restoration. Things die. And that’s scary. But new life can grow in it’s place. Death and Resurrections are always happening.