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During meditation, fragrant balm from this text soothed my psyche and enlarged the sense of my destiny:

And I saw a new heaven and a new earth…the holy city, new Jerusalem, coming down from God out of heaven, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband. 

And I heard a great voice out of heaven saying, Behold, the tabernacle of God is with men, and he will dwell with them, and they shall be his people, and God himself shall be with them, and be their God. 

And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away.

From the book of Revelation 21: 1 –5.

Only willingness is necessary to participate in this vision.

I did not look for it this year, but it happened. This morning’s sunshine drenched the single gold crocus emerging from a spray of striped leaves in my front garden, bare save for mulch and shrubs. For sixteen years this crocus has bloomed in the same spot and dissipated February’s flummoxing antics.

Such blooming recalls Creator God’s artistry and timing: It’s thrilling to be a part of it.

From a heavy sleep, I awoke at 7:30 A.M., with these stunning dreams:

It is Sunday afternoon, visiting time in the hospital. Many relatives fill Mother’s room where she lies in bed, awake and animated. I notice a smiling tiger looking at me from under her bed, its furry tail wagging, occasionally thumping on the floor.

I’m awake in my hospital bed as a clerk hands me a box wrapped in lavender tulle and silky ribbons. Inside is a deep-throated white orchid. There is no card.

These dreams contain sparks of hope from my Dreamer, a restoration sorely needed from yesterday’s severe grief.

Sunday afternoon refers to a period of receptivity, comparable with Creation’s Seventh Day, with opportunities for new learning. The image of hospital suggests a milieu of care and treatment for the new learning to occur. Mother, my extraverted shadow, although ill, welcomes her relatives seated and standing around her bed. No one seems to notice the smiling tiger, a spirit animal with multiple associations. This one is tame and serves as guardian into the unknown. I claim it as I continue moving through the symptoms of my terminal illness.

In the second dream God, disguised as a clerk, presents me with a gift/grace; its wrappings of regal lavenders speak of royalty, as in the Kingdom Jesus preached in the gospels. But the gift of the deep-throated orchid, a rich feminine symbol, heals some scars of the wounded feminine in my psyche, more of the beautification process before my transition—but more still to be done.

Once again, the dreams evidence God doing for me what I cannot do for myself. I’m humbled.

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