One night last week I had a dream I can't forget.
In my dream I was pulled from bed and lifted into the blue-black sky above our house. The wind was soft; I was not afraid, I knew I had been woken to come and see something I had to know.
Below me the house was resting, asleep. Windows curtained, doors shut tight, no sound but the regular breathing of the people I love. I watched it in quietness, contented. And in that peaceful space I saw the little house begin to glow from within. A leak of light slipped from under the door, a bright fullness behind the shrouded windows; from the chimney a golden beam escaped on the south side, then one on the north, the east, the west.
I gasped at the hallowed beauty of it. In the prescient way of dreams, I knew the light was something that I could have if I wanted, a promise being offered.
"How?" I whispered, for by then I knew that God Himself was there with me.
Did He wave His hand? A rush of air, the roof gave way and below me I could see, as though all of my life's time was being spent in this one moment, the traces of my steps, the ordinary rhythms of work and worry. And I saw the golden light igniting every prayer-filled moment, the times my mind was turned to Christ, His word, the bright thrum of the air whenever I sang to Him in worship. I watched as the light grew surer, stronger, until every step was laced with it, the inside of our home ablaze with the communion of His Spirit, and I knew that I wanted this more than anything else in the world.
In the morning I wrote it down, all of it: the wild hunger I had for that Presence, the beauty of the light, how it was grown in hidden places, away from the eyes of men, done only for the love and nearness of God Himself. And I wrote down the cold knowing the morning brought: fear of my own humanity, my proclivity to wander, my grumbling heart and cynic's facile assuredness; an ascetic, I am not.
A week later I am still remembering, taking the dream out of time-corners, holding it reverently and close. I know that dreams arrive and disappear like vapor, but the voice of the Spirit can come and write His will on our hearts and forever change us. Hope like fine gold thread weaves itself into the hours - hope that He still ignites the seeking heart.
(I am seeking; find me.)
Every day this world drones louder.
Come away, close the door, says my spirit.
I looked down and I could see all my life's time being spent in one moment.
(I have only this moment, Lord; light me.)
The teaching of the Holy Spirit is in the heart first; man’s teaching in the mind. Let all our thinking ever lead us to cease from thought, and to open the heart and will to the Spirit to teach there in His own Divine way, deeper than thought and feeling. Unseen, within the veil, the Holy Spirit abideth. Be silent and still, believe and expect, and cling to Jesus.”
~ Andrew Murray