At 4:20 A, M., I awoke with this probing dream:

The late morning is iced over by spitting rains as mourners climb stone steps of the entrance of the College Church at St. Louis, Missouri. A significant member of the congregation has died, known for her long-standing activism exposing evil’s many faces wherever she saw them—even imprisoned for her work…A fearless woman, she never flinched turning her other cheek…Grief impressed its pallor upon the bereaved as they knocked slush from their boots…I wanted to be like the deceased.

This dream story would be remembered, unlike pieces salvaged over the past month, only to be snatched back into my unconscious; this dream would wait until I turned on the light, grabbed pen and paper, and wrote. Only three sentences were unintelligible in the morning’s light. More meaning would have emerged had that not been the case.

The wintry weather, iced over by spitting rains, suggests the cold-killer lurking in my psyche that imprisons my words beneath glacial ceilings, pinched by frigid waters. The College Church speaks to the patriarchal milieu that influences attitudes, decisions, even actions: all of which had kept my feminine spirit in bondage until leaving, decades ago. Yet, this is the venue that agrees to handle my remains, whenever ….

The fearless woman in the dream story is unknown to me—perhaps my positive feminine archetype. The grief-stricken mourners attending the memorial Mass speak of my own, still attached to this life and bewailing its diminishment and inability to participate more fully. There’s so much more to learn. Despite daily prayer of powerlessness over my demise and of surrender to God’s will, I’m still holding on. Such, I think, is the intent of the dream.

I know this is Creator God’s work. I have only to participate.