I awoke sitting straight up in bed, in a cold sweat and fighting for breath. Then relief enveloped me as my eyes assured I was in my own home. It had been a bad dream. No… definitely a nightmare.
The clock on my nightstand showed it was 6 a.m. I lay back till my heart rate slowed to normal. Then shrugging off terror I fell into my usual routine – feeding the cats, eating a bowl of cereal, opening curtains, making the bed, and so on. All the while wondering why such a dream would come to me. I almost never watch the news or concern myself with what’s happening around the world, because I can’t do anything about it.
After the sun came up I wandered out to my front yard flowerbed. Noticing the weeds and Bermudagrass trying to take over again, I got out my digging tools and tackled them.
Just after 9 o’clock my husband called out the door, “Neal’s on the phone.” I wiped my hands on an old towel and hurried in.
“Mom,” my son said, “the International Trade Center has been hit by a plane. They’re saying on the news that it may be a terrorist attack.”
A few minutes later my other son called. Corey confirmed it was definitely no accident. We turned on the television and tearfully watched the scenario unfolding. Another hour or so slipped by before I recalled my nightmare.
I told my husband, “I was in the sanctuary of our church, along with several other women. Each of us lay in a pew with at least four seats separating us from each other. I saw us as though I was hovering near the ceiling. Three men in Middle Eastern garb with automatic rifles covered the doorways, yelling to each other in their language. Somehow I understood they were arguing about what to do with us. I also sensed there were more of them outside, where they’d already killed our men.”
We watched all the chilling news unfold on television. How could such a thing have happened in America? Weeks later I was visiting my brother. He described a strange dream he’d experienced just before dawn the morning of the terrorist attacks. He was wandering around in a huge building several stories tall. He didn’t know where he was or how he came to be there, and couldn’t find his way out. Over breakfast that morning, he’d described the building in detail to his wife.
“That’s the Twin Towers – the International Trade Center. I was there once,” she’d told him. And they’d marveled at his perfect description of a place he’d never been.
Then I shared my dream of that same morning. We sat in silence for a long moment, not knowing what else to say. Many times since then I’ve wondered if my dream pertained to that day alone. For now we see through a glass darkly…