My eyes sting from the heat. I blink and rub at them, trying to see what’s in front of me, but there’s so much smoke I feel blind. And there’s a nasty acrid smell that burns my throat as I attempt to breathe. It smells like something very bad is burning, something I shouldn’t be inhaling.
As I stumble along, I try to hold my breath. I know that I need to escape this place–
fast! But then I trip over a wooden crate and fall smack down onto what feels like a filthy cement floor. It’s sticky and grimy down here with, I’m guessing, years’ worth of crud ingrained into the surface.
Despite the filth, I think maybe I’m safer down here. I recall a fireman, back when I was little, telling our class that the smoke isn’t as bad if you stay low. So I continue searching for the exit, crawling on my hands and knees. The air has gotten so thick that it feels like I’m fighting my way through a heavy curtain of murky darkness. I pull the neck of my T-shirt up over my face in an attempt to cover my nose and mouth. I can’t see a thing except for the eerie red glow off to my left, and I need to get away from that–it’s dangerous, deadly, and evil.
I must keep moving in the opposite direction of the fire. My time is limited, and I need to get out of here– now! Shards of glass cut into my hands and knees as I creep along, and I keep bumping into cardboard boxes and plastic bottles and other sorts of unknown debris cluttering the place. It seems as if someone has been in here knocking things over, throwing things about, creating a huge mess that has become my obstacle course…or perhaps my deathtrap if I don’t escape.
I can’t give up I tell myself as I continue navigating through my smoky prison. There must be a door somewhere. If I got into this place, there has to be a way out. I just wish I knew where it is. I inch my way forward, upright on my knees now, my arms outstretched and flailing in front of me. If only I could find a wall to follow. Something that would lead me to a door or a window, anything that could get me out of here.
The heat is almost unbearable now. It feels like the back of my shirt is melting into my skin, like my lungs are about to collapse. And the putrid stench makes me want to vomit.
I suddenly wonder if this is what hell would feel like and how anyone could endure such torture. Is that where I am right now–in hell? But why? Why would I be in hell? Why would God allow that?
Finally my hands feel what seems to be a wall. I rise to my feet and quickly use the rough wooden surface to guide me. Splinters pierce my fingers, but that’s minor compared to the burning heat and the deadly smell. I work my way along this wall until I reach what I think is a window. It’s about three feet from the floor and feels as if a heavy, canvaslike cloth is covering the glass. I tug at the cloth, but it’s securely attached by what seem to be nails. Why would someone nail a window covering down?
And then I hear a loud sizzling, crackling noise behind me, back where the fire is increasing by the second. It’s a menacing sound…almost demonic, like it wants to devour me, to burn me alive. I pound my fists against the cloth over the window, hoping to loosen this covering and force open the window and–
An earsplitting explosion knocks me off my feet, and I smack into the window.
When I come to my senses, I am lying facedown outside. I don’t know how much time has passed, but I’m on pavement that’s cool and damp, probably from a recent rain. I can tell that it’s night by the darkness and the streetlight several feet away. The ground’s wetness is such a welcome relief after the inferno I just escaped and the horrible explosion that I felt certain was going to kill me. But when I slowly roll over onto my back and open my eyes, I see by the glow of the streetlight that what I thought was water is actually my own blood. Bright red blood is flowing everywhere, like a river coming straight out of me. My arms and legs and entire body are sliced and shredded, probably a result of that explosion and my crashing through the window. I become dizzy from looking at the pool of my own blood, or perhaps it’s simply from the loss of it. No human can possibly survive so much blood loss without medical assistance. Without help, I will die.
I attempt to scream, but my voice feels small and weak…and the street is completely vacant and quiet, not a car or pedestrian in sight. No one who can possibly come to my rescue.
“Dear God,” I sob, “please, please, help me! Help me!” Then I lay my head back and close my eyes, preparing to die, because it won’t be long now. It won’t be long…
“Samantha!” Someone’s shaking me. “Samantha!”
I open my eyes once again, and my mother’s face hovers over me with a worried expression. I blink and sit up, realizing that I am safe and in my own bed. I look down at my arms and see that I’m not cut. I’m not bleeding.
“Are you okay?” Mom sits next to me on the bed.“I heard you screaming in your sleep. Sounds like you were having a pretty bad dream.”
I’m still trying to catch my breath, to slow down my heart rate.
“Are you okay?” she asks again.
I nod.
My mom’s face grows even more troubled now. “Was it one of
those dreams?”
I know what she means by “those” dreams. I also know that she’d probably rather not hear about it, but I’m still so shaken, so frightened, that I need to talk. “I don’t know. All I know is that it was horrid.”
“Do you want to tell me about it?”
I frown. “Do you really want to hear?”
She sort of shrugs. “I’m awake… You might as well tell me.”
So I describe the dream to her, and her frown lines grow deeper as she listens. “That was awful. Do you think it means anything?”
“I don’t know, Mom. I never saw anyone else in the dream. Usually those dreams are warnings for someone else. But it’s like I was all alone in this one.”
“Surely you don’t think something like that could happen to you, do you?”
“I don’t know. I mean, I suppose the warning could be for me. And if I ever got into a situation that felt anything like that, well, I’d probably remember this dream and get out of there before things got worse.”
Mom sighs, pressing her lips together, and I can tell that I’ve pushed her beyond her comfort zone.
“The important thing to keep in mind,” I tell her, “is that when God gives me prophetic dreams, it’s almost always to help someone or to prevent something bad from happening.”
She just shakes her head, and I can tell she doesn’t get it, doesn’t want to get it, and I’m guessing she’d like to go back to bed. “Isn’t there a good chance that it was simply a nightmare, Samantha?”
“Maybe…”
“Can you go back to sleep now?” She glances at my alarm clock. “It’s not even four yet.”
“Yeah, I’ll read my Bible for a while.” I force a smile for her benefit. “That always makes me feel better.”
“Okay.” Then she leans over and kisses me on the forehead, something she hasn’t done since I was little and she would put me to bed. “Hope you have some better dreams now.”
“Me too.”
Although I try to appear brave and like I’m perfectly fine, I am haunted by that dream. It felt like the real deal. Yet how can I know for sure? And if it really was from God, what does it mean? Was it meant for me or somebody else?
Before I read my Bible, I get out my special notebook and carefully record all that I can remember from the dream. Just in case this really is a warning of some sort. But to be honest, I seriously hope it’s not. The horror of that fire, the smell of that caustic smoke, the idea of being cut up like that and then bleeding to death… Well, it’s pretty disturbing stuff.
Sometimes I wonder why God lets me in on these things. My friend Detective Ebony Hamilton says it must be because He can trust me with important things like this, but sometimes I feel more like I’m being tormented. Oh, I try not to think that consciously, because I do feel honored, and I sure don’t want God to take this gift away from me. But sometimes, particularly on nights like this when it’s hard to go back to sleep after such a vivid dream, I do sort of wonder. Then I remind myself that God’s ways are way higher than mine, and even when it doesn’t make sense to me, He knows what He’s doing. I just need to trust Him.
I also need to pray. And so I do tonight. Usually when I’ve had a dream or vision like that, I pray for the person involved in the dream, whether I know them by name or simply by remembering the image I saw. The problem with tonight’s dream is that there never really seemed to be anyone besides me. So I just pray for the people on my prayer list instead. I go through several of them and finally really lock into praying for my brother, Zach. He’s due to come home in less than a week, so I pray that his stint in
rehab has changed him for good. I pray that Zach will submit his heart to God and allow Him to direct his life and that God will open lots of exciting new doors for Zach.
After I finish praying, I can’t get my older brother out of my head. And it’s hard not to get sad when I think about his life. It’s even harder to accept the fact that he had a serious methamphetamine addiction. And tha...
