The Soul Remembers
Three-thirty in the morning is my favorite time of day. The house is quiet. I hear soft breathing as I pass the bedroom door. I lift my restless daughter from her crib, this child who also likes three-thirty in the morning. I rock in rhythm with the ticking clock. As I smile at my daughter, and she smiles at me, I realize that I’ve not had the dream since her birth.
From childhood, I’ve had the same dream: I’m running down the middle of a deserted street at night. Tall, dark buildings tower over me. I’m wearing a gray coat and carrying a baby swaddled in a white blanket. Bombs are exploding around me. I zig and zag, trying to avoid them. I cannot escape them. Each one explodes closer to me than the last. Red and yellow flames light the sky.
Then, I wake, but the feeling of terror lingers. I cannot escape the dream. It follows me from childhood through high school, college and into young womanhood.
Now, the dream is gone. I look at my daughter; she looks at me. Has my child been restored to me? Is that why I no longer have the dream? Then, I know. We come from God; we return to God. The physical body forgets; the soul remembers. The Cherokees have a saying at the moment of death: “It will be better next time.” It is.
If you enjoyed this essay, please consider making a tax-deductible contribution to This I Believe, Inc.