Peace House

Last night there was a great storm that broke the building summer heat. In the cool of the morning I dreamt a dream:

A meeting of some people from the peace church was called. We came into a large room, gathered to talk about how we were going to seek peace. I was there, somehow. As the room began to fill it was getting crowded. Not because of new faces like me, but because they had to make room for the grandfathers who brought the fathers who brought the children who brought the grandchildren. They brought all these to witness and give honor to the grandfathers.

I tried to speak, but what I said fell flat. It wasn’t what had been heard before since the time of the grandfathers. It wasn’t the wrong spirit, just the wrong words. There was a tall man, rail-thin and recognized by all as the leader — I knew him. He looked at the grandfathers and their confused children who hadn’t heard the same words they expected. He looked at me. He didn’t know what to do so he called for lunch.

On the way to lunch, two young men found me: one white, one Asian. Maybe they heard what I said. We stood to the side and discussed that nothing was happening and nothing was going to happen. I said, “We know the practices, we could just do this.” The Asian man said, “I could just do this with my wife.”

Immediately, I was filled with the beauty and glory of what was going to happen when they did this. I could feel generations of children — not blood, but family — who would know the Lord because of this. I started to weep.

I woke up crying.