I’m about to tell you about something that really happened to me.
It was a dream.
The most vivid, powerful, and surreal dream I’ve ever had.
It came to me roughly 25 years ago, when I was still living at home with my mom.
My mom was one of the most devoted Christians I’ve ever known.
Every morning before school, she’d lay her hands on me and pray Psalm 91:10 over me.
Church, praise, worship...
God was woven into the fabric of our home.
I went through the motions as a kid, but it never clicked for me.
Not until that one night.
The dream’s intensity has faded over the years, and I’ve spent over two decades chasing its echo.
Here’s what I remember...
My eyes snapped open like I’d been jolted with adrenaline.
No groggy haze, no slow roll out of bed.
Just instant alertness, the kind you see in movies when the camera hovers above the bed and you see the eyes just pop wide open.
I vaulted out of bed and bolted down the stairs like it was Christmas morning.
In the dream, I stood before Jesus.
He didn’t match the Sunday-school paintings.
He looked more like a long-haired rock-star biker.
Rugged, real.
Shame crashed over me the moment I saw Him.
I couldn’t hold His gaze for more than a second.
I wanted to bolt, to hide.
He knew I felt shame.
Without a word, He grabbed the front of my shirt, yanked me into His chest, and wrapped me in the tightest, warmest, most love-drenched hug I’ve ever felt.
His beard brushed my cheek.
His arms were thick with hair.
(more on that later)
Words fail the love that poured out of Him.
Shame surged again, and I tried to pull away.
He only held tighter.
I started sobbing.
Ugly, uncontrollable sobs.
Because I knew I didn’t deserve it.
My knees buckled.
He held me upright.
The more I fought, the more the shame tried to win, until something shifted.
A low, rhythmic vibration began in His chest.
Waves of it, like a deep "vrrrrrrr" you could feel in your bones.
It was audible too.
Each pulse carried a love so pure it erased every doubt.
I woke in the midst of the vibes because I believe it freaked me out.
I spilled every detail to my mom.
She listened, eyes shining, then said, “That was a divine download.”
She paused, smiled, and asked, “Do you remember when you were four years old? You came running into my room, saying you saw Jesus sitting in the corner of your room in a blue robe?”
I blinked.
The memory flooded back.
“You wouldn’t stop talking about how hairy His arms were,” she said.
That dream didn’t just visit me.
It marked me.
I carried its fire.
The shame, the hug, the vibrating love that said I was enough.
Life’s noise eventually dulled the glow, but every so often, in quiet moments, I feel the echo of that vrrrrrrr.
It reminds me that the door is still open.
And one day, I’ll walk through it again.