In the dream that was not a dream I sat perched on the wide, wooden railing of the porch. The wood was slightly rotting, the building's white paint peeling from the years and the dampness in the air. The porch was wide, with small tables and old, lay-back-and-rest chairs. People were talking amongst themselves as I sat contemplating the distant range of mountains and the slowly setting sun. God was painting the sky with the solemn but beautiful colors of a day ending. It crossed my mind to point the beauty out to the others but, with a quick glance, I knew they were in conversations that had no place for the ending of the day.
I turned back to the beauty of the day and night merging and became lost in the silence of my own mind. Suddenly a movement startled me. I blinked in shock as a brilliant-white dove flew to me. He rested for a brief second on my chest, his feet clinging to my blouse, his eyes gazing into mine. Perhaps it was two seconds, perhaps it was ten. He waited until I had fully registered his presence and his message and then took flight. I was stunned by the magic of his presence and the gift of his touch. And on his back had been written words painted with the brush of calligraphy. Letters painted with gentle swirls of a message I knew was from God.
The air whispered and told me that the words were from The Book of John. My heart somehow knew that the dove's name was John as well.
After a brief second of holding the miracle in my own silence I jumped up and ran to the others. Please listen to the miracle, to all of the miracles, I called. They shushed me and turned me away. I was interrupting them. Unfazed, I walked back to the railing and rested my palms on the rough, splintery wood. The sun was giving the day to the moon. The wings of the dove could be heard in the distance as it flew away from the gift it had just given.
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