It was the early hours of December 6th, 2024, somewhere between 2 and 3 a.m., when I found myself in a vivid dream, seated at a picnic table in a serene park. Across from me sat a woman with striking reddish-orange hair, her fiery locks glowing softly in the bright morning light. She looked down, her gaze fixed on the table or something unseen, and she did not attempt to meet my eyes. Suddenly, she broke the silence, her voice loud and irritated: “I’m bored of doing nothing!” Her tone was sharp and agitated, cutting through the stillness as though trying to provoke or distract me. A thought stirred within me—perhaps she wasn’t who she seemed. Could she, and the others around me, be distractions, remnants of demons that once tried to keep me preoccupied and away from my purpose? Yet now, even they had become silent, their power diminished to frustrated murmurs that no longer held sway over me.
To my left, another picnic table caught my attention, where four figures sat together. My focus fixed entirely on one of them—a figure in bright white, whose entire body was covered, including their face. The material bore faint gray outlines of a skull, details so subtle they were only visible on close observation. I leaned forward, studying the faint yet unmistakable mark of death on this figure. The realization unsettled me, but I could not look away, captivated by the layers of meaning hidden in the image.
Then, the scene shifted, and I became aware of my own mortality. I was standing over my grave, staring down at a tombstone. Time seemed to stand still, but instead of pondering my past choices, I reflected on the purpose for which God had created me. In that moment, my thoughts shifted from the fleeting nature of life to seeking God’s will, His voice, and His desires. I was no longer weighed down by regret or doubt; instead, I sought to be led by the Holy Spirit, yearning to align myself fully with God’s divine plan for my life. This reflection filled me with a quiet sense of purpose and anticipation.
Before I could linger further, I looked upward and noticed low-flying aircraft moving through a bright blue sky. The scene was silent, yet the presence of the planes carried weight. Leading the formation were two C-130 military planes, painted in olive drab military green. Their imposing frames and low altitude made their presence both striking and commanding. They moved side by side, guiding the rest of the aircraft with deliberate precision. The swarm spiraled smoothly from my right to my left, moving as one, like a hive of bees. At the center of the formation, I noticed a small commercial jet, surrounded yet moving in unison with the military planes. Without pause, the scene immediately shifted to the left, where the ocean met the horizon.
The horizon held something extraordinary. The ocean had already opened into a massive, gaping chasm, as though the earth itself had split apart. My eyes fixed on a colossal oil tanker, nearly upright, its bright reddish-orange hull vivid against the vibrant blue sky. The contrast of the hull’s intense color with the surrounding sky was striking, emphasizing its unnatural position as it hovered at the brink of the abyss. Surrounding it were smaller vessels, frozen in place, seemingly held in a moment of anticipation. Though they were poised as if ready to plunge downward, nothing moved. The stillness carried an overwhelming sense of power and inevitability, as though time itself had been arrested to emphasize the weight of the scene. It was a vivid reminder of the fragility of human power and the unstoppable force of God’s will.
The dream shifted again, and I found myself in a modest bedroom. The wall to my right held a small bookshelf, positioned about two feet from where I knelt on the carpet. Behind me, about six feet away, was a king-size bed. My left shoulder was angled slightly toward the bed’s edge, but I remained out of reach. On my knees and forearms, I leaned forward, flipping through a small blue book. The pages were light blue with blue lettering, and occasional blue illustrations appeared within its pages, but nothing about the book captured my attention. The content was unreadable and lacked anything meaningful or engaging. I barely glanced through it, noting only the blue tone of its pages and letters, and tossed it aside onto the floor without giving it another thought.
As I discarded the blue book, I found in my hands a smaller black book filled with sacred artwork. Its pages appeared to be made from old woodblock etchings, their detail simple yet profound. The etchings portrayed crosses, images of Christ, and various illustrations from the Bible, each image capturing a timeless truth with intricate artistry. As I flipped through the pages, I marveled at the precision of the illustrations. A thought came to me—this book could illuminate the minds of little ones. By using these pictures to guide them, I could help young hearts understand deeper spiritual truths, teaching them about God’s love and His Word in a way that would resonate with their imaginations and souls. The simplicity and beauty of the book filled me with a sense of purpose, a reminder of the power of teaching and the importance of nurturing the next generation in faith.
The scene shifted once more, and I was now kneeling on the worn, bare mattress of an old twin bed that stood near the king-size bed. The mattress felt uninviting, yet it seemed to be the right place for my work. I held a large, ancient book. Its aged, yellowed pages carried a rich texture that seemed to attract lint, and I focused entirely on cleaning it. With deliberate, gentle motions, I brushed off the lint, ensuring the book remained undamaged as I worked. As I moved my hand across the open pages, I noticed, at the very center top of one page, a faint black ink mark. It appeared to have been made with a quill, forming what looked like an old cursive, uneven “U.” The left side of the mark curled inward, making a semi-circle, while the right side extended faintly but remained mostly out of view. The ink was deep black, resembling Indian ink, and though I didn’t pay it much attention during the dream, the memory of it became clearer upon reflection. The mark was subtle yet deliberate, standing out against the aged, yellowed page.
The twin bed beneath me was worn and bare, its mattress uninviting but sufficient for the task at hand. Its simplicity contrasted with the larger king-size bed in the room, emphasizing the quiet, deliberate care I gave to the book.
And then it happened. A voice—a radiant female voice, filled with gentleness and authority—spoke clearly and audibly: “God is calling you.” Her words echoed in the room, carrying a weight that filled me with awe and reverence.
Almost immediately, another voice spoke, this one internal, calm, and deliberate: “In 8 months.” The words resonated within me, leaving no doubt that they were meant to guide me.