I need a Joseph or a Daniel to help me out here. I need a dream interpreted and I am willing to pay for it. Well, sort of.
Last night I dreamed and this is how it went…
Someone had died. I don’t now know whom it was, but in my dream, I must have known. I know that it was a man around my age and someone asked me to deliver the eulogy/sermon at the funeral.
A buzz of excitement gripped my friends and family, as I have not been behind a pulpit in quite some time. I guess, now that I am awake, that is a bit morbid. But I was dreaming.
A fog, the kind you might find on any given San Francisco morning hanging over the bay. I drove my red Toyota pickup to the church. It sparkled and shined, so I suppose I had cleaned it for the funeral procession.
At some point, I went on an unknown mission to the convenience store. When I returned, the parking lot of the small, postcard-worthy, red brick church with the magnificent cross-topped steeple was filled beyond capacity. I had to park down the street.
Inside, the church was packed. People were shoehorned into every pew and standing along the outer walls and across the back of the sanctuary. I made my way down the narrow center aisle and took my place on the front pew.
I was not the only minister officiating this service. Two retired preachers – I think I know who they are, and one of them is my wife Donya’s deceased uncle – were to precede me to the podium. They were talking about retirement and how they ought to team up to do this sort of thing. I don’t know if I thought that was odd and sad in my dream or thought it after I woke.
A beautiful rendition of “When They Ring Those Golden Bells” ( a song I had inexplicably been singing in the car earlier that night – I mean, literally; not as part of the dream – to Donya’s baffled wonderment) was delivered by my good pal Rob Wren…or my Mom. I can’t say which for sure at this point.
Finally, it was time for me to preach.
A reverent hush fell over the capacity crowd. For some reason, I lay prone on the front pew under a blanket. When I sat up, I was naked, but for a pair of boxer briefs. I had not realized this was the case until that very moment. I sat mortified. Donya looked across the aisle at me with a look of pained pity.
I sat frozen to the pew, unable to move a muscle or utter a word. I had no idea what to do.
Donya stood and asked if anyone had extra clothes I could borrow. There must have been some sort of collection for the homeless taken place at the church, because someone found and handed her a flannel shirt and a pair of jeans. I quickly put on the shirt and the jeans. The jeans were huge and would have fallen right off of me. I had to gather the waist in one hand and my Bible in the other.
And that is how I ascended the two or three platform steps and make my way to the pulpit.
Apparently, the pastor of the church was a diminutive fellow, for there was a wood crate hidden behind the pulpit for standing on. I tried to nudge it aside with my foot, but it must have been nailed to the floor. So, I climbed onto the crate and was now towering above the pulpit, with the top of it coming to about my waist.
I woke to Donya typing out a message on her phone. It was 5:45 am. I tried to go back to sleep to finish my dream, but it was gone. I was thankful to her for getting me clothes and aggravated at her for waking me at a crucial moment.
I am looking for my Daniel or Joseph. I need a dream interpreter to make sense of this and I am prepared to give a free, autographed copy of my 2002 novella The Preacher’s Kid to the best (or funniest, or most interesting, or most inspired) interpretation as voted by the editorial board here at The Journeyman (which consists of Gene and I, which is to say me). Please leave your interpretation in the comment section below and feel free to invite any dream weavers you know to offer theirs, as well. I will leave the contest open for one week and the clock starts…now.