Perception

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

On several occasions I have had a dream repeat itself. These repeated dreams have the same storyline but with different outcomes. These dreams have given me an opportunity to look at life from different viewpoints.

The Dream...

Although I had not opened my eyes, I gradually became aware of my surroundings. I was a little warm even though my only covering was a sheet. What was producing the heat was her body snuggled up next to mine with her arm across my chest. I don’t know if it was the heat from her body that had awakened me or the unique way that she always breathed as she slept. Her breath came in little puffs. She didn’t snore as she accused me of doing but the sounds she made were just as irritating as any sound I might make. If she would just turn over on her back she could breathe easier and the oppressive heat of her body crowded up next to me would diminish. You would think we were sleeping on a single bed instead of the queen-size bed that consumed a large portion of our bedroom. It would do no good to ease out from under her arm and move over because within a few minutes she would find me again even in her sleep.

A Repeat…

Although I had not opened my eyes, I gradually became aware of my surroundings. I was a little warm even though my only covering was a sheet. What was producing the heat was her body snuggled up next to mine with her arm across my chest. I don’t know if it was the heat from her body that had awakened me or the unique way that she always breathed as she slept. Her breath came in little puffs. Realizing the source of the external heat warmed my heart. Even with the queen-size bed that occupied our bedroom, her most comfortable spot was snuggled up next to me. The little puffs of air escaping from her lips gave me assurance in the darkness of who was lying next to me. How fortunate I felt that someone cared enough about me to snuggle up next to me even in the heat of a summer night. How comfortable it felt to know someone so well that you could even recognize the pattern of her breathing. I pulled her tighter against me and wished that the moment would never end. I was glad that she found me even in her sleep.

How often do we look for the negative and overlook the positive? Our attitudes can lead to self fulfilling prophecies. Do I need an attitude adjustment? Could each of us use an attitude adjustment? These two dreams had everything in common: the heat, the closeness, and the little puffs of air escaping from her lips. The only difference was my attitude. I wrote about another dream I had in February 2004 where the scene replays and I get a chance to do things differently. It is titled “The Dirty Windshield” and you can read it by clicking on the link below.

www.grubbsfamily.org/ponder/item?item_id=19405

Time to Fish

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

Have you ever awakened and briefly wondered where you were or what day it was? As I raised my head and looked around, I began brushing the sand from my face as though it was something I routinely did every morning. The sound of waves crashing on the beach drew my attention away from myself for a moment. The ocean looked angry and the skies were dark and threatening. It was only a matter of time before rain would be pelting me if I didn’t find some type of shelter.

My clothes were in disarray. I was missing a shoe. I had an ache in my stomach that resembled hunger but I wasn’t sure if it was hunger or anxiety. When had I last eaten? I couldn’t remember. How long had I been here? I didn’t know. How did I get here? I wasn’t certain but there was a nagging thought that I had fallen overboard from a ship of some kind. I had this sense of falling and then the darkness and the cold. Now here I was lying on this beach, chilled, hungry and about to get drenched by a storm that filled all the visible sky.

The wind howled and the tree limbs leading into the dense vegetation whipped against my face as I pushed my way through looking for a place that would shield me from the elements. As the rain came I could hear it pounding on the canopy of trees above me. It reminded me of the big bad wolf growling and trying to blow my house of trees down. The trees were so thick they blocked the sky as the rain pounded against this little island. The ground was thick with vegetation and fallen timber. I found a large log about three feet in diameter. I stacked limbs and clump-grass against the log making a lean-to to shield me from the rain. After I crawled inside I drew my knees up against my chest to block out the chill of the coming night air.

When I dozed off and was startled awake by a large clap of thunder it was dark. I couldn’t see anything. The sounds around me were adding to my already heightened sense of concern and anxiety. As I laid there huddled against the forces of nature, I became aware of a sound that was different from the rest of the forest noises. It was a crying sound that was human or near human. I wasn’t alone. But what was out there in the dark of this wet, cold night? Not being able to see because of the darkness I laid there for the rest of the night listening to that muffled cry. With all the other noises I couldn’t determine how close or far away the sound was coming from.

At daybreak I eased out of my resting place behind the log and looked around. As far as I could see it was just trees, trees and more trees. The vegetation was choked with fallen timber from trees that had finished their lives and collapsed, rotting at the feet of newer, healthier trees. The sound of crying was fainter now and it was hard to distinguish the direction it was coming from. I made my way toward what I thought was the origin of the sound.

I didn’t know what to expect. What if it was someone injured or sick? It had never occurred to me that I wouldn’t be able to figure out a way to survive, but to have to care for someone else may be more than I could handle. My mind was alert and I had always been taught that the mind is the most valuable weapon we have against the unknown. The sound of crying gradually became clearer as I moved deeper into the dense growth of trees. I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. It startled me and my breath locked in my throat yet I was excited to finally know the source of the crying sound. I wasn’t prepared for what I discovered.

It was a woman holding a small child cradled in her arms. The girl looked to be about three years old. They were both drenched and shivering from the rain of last night. Fear streaked across the woman’s face as she clutched the child to her chest and struggled to get on her feet for what I thought would be a flight deeper into the jungle. She collapsed back against the tree trunk she had been leaning against before I startled her. Then the lady began to weep in deep gasping sobs which caused the little girl to cry even louder. They just sat there clutching each other like I was their executioner.

I dropped to my knees in front of them and asked how I could help. As the woman’s sobs turned to whimpers I reached out and rubbed the side of her face. She gradually eased her grasp of the little girl and allowed me to take her in my arms. I took the woman by the arm and helped her to her feet. She was like a wobbly newborn calf as she stood and tried to walk. Gradually we began to move in the direction from which I came. My footprints were easy to follow in the damp earth. Looking down it was almost comical as I remembered that I only had one shoe. As I held her arm and carried the child we did not speak. The little girl had stopped crying and was leaning against my chest. I could feel her warm breath on my neck. It was such a contrast to the chilled skin of the woman’s arm as I continued to steady her as we walked.

Somehow I needed to get these two people warm. The rain had stopped but due to the dense canopy of trees overhead, I didn’t know if the clouds had blown away to reveal a sunny day or not. They needed warmth, water and something to eat. My mind began to race as I thought about trying to get a fire started after such a downpour. What was I thinking? I didn’t even have a single match: no Bic lighter, no flint and steel, no nine- volt battery and steel wool. A feeling of calm came over me as I remembered that if Heavenly Father wanted this woman and child warm he would help me accomplish the task. He had helped me find them, hadn’t he? I thought about that saying: “There are no coincidences in life.”

After an hour of frustration I still didn’t have that miracle fire started. I gave the woman my dry shirt and told her to remove all her wet clothes and let them dry in the sun. I took the toddler’s clothes off and put my tee shirt on her. As we sat in the sand she explained that they hadn’t eaten for three days. That is how long it had been since they were left on this island by the father of her child. When she told him she was pregnant he became angry and tried to persuade her to get an abortion but she refused. After their daughter was born, their relationship deteriorated until he took them on a sailboat cruise to this remote island and deserted them, leaving them nothing but two bottles of water. They watched him sail toward the horizon certain that he would come back. Since the birth of their daughter he had played other cruel jokes on her but this time he didn’t return.

All of a sudden the responsibility of caring for this woman and her daughter began to overwhelm me. Getting a fire started using old Indian methods I had studied in a book wasn’t going to be easy. That was just one of the many challenges that would be required of me if I was going to keep them alive until help arrived. I began preparing to go into the forest to see if I could catch some small game for us to eat. The woman didn’t want me to leave them but I couldn’t accomplish what I needed to do with them along. With my pocket knife I sharpened several long stakes to use as spears and headed back into the dense vegetation to look for food. After several hours of hunting with no success I returned to fine both of them sound to sleep. Something pricked my heart to think that they had laid their troubles in the sand and were sleeping contented. They wouldn’t be sleeping so peacefully if they knew how ill prepared I was to keep them alive.

The woman was lying on her left side with her head resting on her outstretched arm. Her hand was open, palm up with no ring on her finger. Her mouth was slightly parted and her breathing came in short little puffs. She had small laugh lines at the crease of her mouth. Her hair was blonde with the slightest presence of darker roots at the scalp. Her daughter was tucked in a fetal position against her stomach with the woman’s right arm holding the child snugly to her. It was like I was seeing them before she gave birth to her daughter. I wanted to brush the sand from her cheek but I was afraid I would awaken her. There was something familiar about this woman and her child. I realized I was studying her like someone preparing for an examination and I became embarrassed for invading her privacy as she slept. Rising to my feet, I unbuckled and removed my jeans and took one of my sharpened sticks and started toward the breaking surf to try my luck at fishing. They were hungry when I found them and they would be even hungrier when they awoke. As I approached the water I saw a white plastic trash bag half buried in the sand. Then I saw another, and another. One of them was ripped open spilling out debris in the surf. There were milk containers, tin cans, rotting vegetables, soggy wet paper goods . . .

Then I remembered. I had been standing on the deck near the back of our cruise ship watching the moon and stars paint the sky with a beautiful array of twinkling lights. I heard a clanking sound like a heavy steel door being opened somewhere far down below me. I leaned over the rail to examine where the sound was coming from. I was startled to see gigantic amounts of garbage being belched into the ocean from the ship. It was sickening to watch. Hundreds of garbage sacks and food along with the smell of human waste spiked the air. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. If every cruise ship practiced ocean dumping at this magnitude, what would eventually happen to all the marine life in the water? As I watched the tons of waste being dumped it began to stream out behind the ship like a highway of refuse. I looked at my watch. It was 2:38 A.M. “No wonder they do this in the middle of the night,” I thought. Startled from a noise from behind, I began to turn around and at that moment I was shoved over the ship’s railing and began to fall. I grabbed for the rail but it was too late. If this was a dream I would awaken before I hit the water. With arms and legs flailing in the air I was certain I was going to die from the impact but unwilling to give up I tried to arrest the tumbling motion and keep my feet pointed down. Wham! I landed in a sea of plastic garbage bags, rotting food and worse. Crashing through the bags of garbage I tore through some of them and drug them down below the surface with me. Fighting the water and the plastic bags of garbage I worked my way to the surface and gasp for air. I guess it wasn’t a dream. I didn’t wake up before I hit the water and I hadn’t died. I was wrong on both counts. I felt something strike my leg and fearing it to be a shark I scrambled to stay on top of the floating garbage.

Fear shut down my brain or I actually passed out, I don’t know which. I was pulling garbage sacks around me trying to hold them together when a voice in my mind said, “Give up, it will be okay.” I shouted out loud, “I will never give up.” The next thing I remembered I was waking up on shore and brushing the sand from my face. Now here I was, on a remote island with a woman and the daughter she refused to give up. They were looking for me to be an answer to prayer. Standing at the edge of the surf with my spear in hand, I looked back at the woman and child sleeping in the sand. Then she rose up on one arm and calling after me said, “Will you take care of my daughter like she was your own if something happens to me?” I didn’t answer her. I just turned back toward the ocean. It was time to fish. She would ask the question again and we both already knew the answer. As I stepped into the water, I awoke.

The Wedding

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

On occasion I will experience a dream in very sharp detail. When that occurs, I often take the time to record the specifics of that dream in what I call my other journal. I refer to it as my other journal because it is separate from the daily journal where I describe the events of the day and express my feelings on various subjects. On the night of July 24th of this year, I had a dream about a double wedding, a wedding in which my best friend and I were getting married.

It was a happy occasion. The facility where we would have a double reception was spacious enough to accommodate the invited guests of all four families involved. My best friend’s wedding was scheduled to take place at one o’clock and my wedding would be at two o’clock in the afternoon. I was originally scheduled to be married at the one o’clock time but my friend’s fiancée insisted that their wedding take place first. What difference would one hour make? My bride-to-be and I discussed the situation and concluded that we would let them go first. No harm done. My family, friends and the photographer were notified of the time change and we were set.

I remember thinking how happy I was that I wasn’t marrying the girl that my best friend had chosen. What would it be like over the years to be married to someone who created so much fuss about being first? She reminded me of my dog Walter who always had to be first. No matter where we were going, if his nose wasn’t at least an inch in front of everyone else, including the bumper of a four-wheeler, he was whining and unhappy. I started calling my best friend’s fiancée Walter although I didn’t tell her why I was referring to her by that name. When I told my future wife the definition behind my choice of nickname for my best friend’s fiancée she just chastised me for my pettiness.

The wedding day finally arrived. It was early morning and I went over to the reception center to see how the setup was going. I couldn’t believe the attention to detail that was taking place. People were scurrying around dusting, arranging flowers, and setting up punch bowl fountains. From the looks of things there was anticipation of a large turnout of invited guests. I walked around surveying the decorations but mostly I just watched the people as they worked. An elderly woman was setting up tables and I went over to help. She said, “You shouldn’t be do this, it’s your wedding day.” I ignored her comment and continued setting up tables. Two elderly men were setting up a display area for gifts. I went over and offered a helping hand. They looked at me and said, “You shouldn’t be doing this, it’s your wedding day.”

What should I be doing on my wedding day? I wasn’t getting married until 2:00 thanks to Miss has to go first or Walter as I now called her. Thank goodness she doesn’t know the meaning behind her new nickname. As I stood looking around in the middle of the reception center, my future wife came through the door. She gave me a full body hug and I kissed her lightly on the lips. We both knew that we were the focus of all the eyes in the room. “I thought it was bad luck to see the bride before the wedding,” I said. “No, you just shouldn’t see me in my wedding dress before the wedding,” she replied. “I think that’s a bunch of bunk,” I said. “So do I and to prove it you can come over and watch me dress if you like,” she said. I was caught off guard. She saw my surprised look and replied, “Just kidding. You can watch me dress all you want after today. But until 2:00 I still belong to my daddy.” “Does that mean your daddy is going to watch you get dressed?” I responded with a grin. Without answering my question, she kissed me on the lips again signaling that the conversation was over. “Let’s see what we can do to help get this place set up,” she said. “You can forget that. They don’t want our help,” I said. “We’ll see about that. Your Miss Walter, as you call her, won’t be very happy unless everything is just right,” she said, as she marched off to the kitchen.

At noon my fiancée’s cell phone rang. Upon answering, she broadcast a concerned look on her face and headed for the door. “What’s wrong?” I asked. “I need to go start getting ready for the wedding,” she replied. I guess so; we’re getting married in two hours. But knowing her, everything would already be laid out just waiting for her to slip into. Just think, after today I can watch her slip into whatever she is wearing. This is a strange world we live in. What is inappropriate today becomes a-okay after a few commitments to love, cherish, hold in sickness and in health . . . until death do you part. Wait a minute. I’m marrying this girl forever. Well, this marriage can be forever if that’s what we choose and keep our commitments. There is no free lunch in this world according to my mother. Mother must have never met someone on welfare.

I felt like a welfare recipient because I was certainly getting more than I deserved in my future wife. My dad said that he couldn’t have made a better choice if he had picked her out himself. Others had commented that I had bested myself and I should marry this girl quick before she wised up to the real me. That’s what I was doing today and after 2:00 I hoped that she would never look back. I know I didn’t want to give her a reason to want to look back. It’s a scary thing when half of all marriages are ending in divorce. This marriage forever stuff is serious business not to say that any marriage isn’t serious business. As a word of fatherly counsel dad took me aside and said, “If this marriage lasts it’ll be because of you. If this marriage fails, it will be because of you.” Where does he come up with this stuff? It reminded me of the counsel he gave me when I left on my mission for the LDS Church. “Son, you made this decision to serve a mission all on your own. No one pressured you to do it. Now there are only two ways to come back home: either with an honorable release for a job well done or in a box.” That didn’t leave many options. I certainly wasn’t going to choose the box method.

Now dad was telling me that if this marriage failed it would be because of my behavior. At least my situation was improving. If this marriage truly was forever, at least the box wasn’t going to undo what would take place at 2:00. If you haven’t figured out what dad meant by “the box” give him a call. He’s eighty-five and probably thinking more about the box than most of you.

I hurried home to change clothes so I wouldn’t be late for my best friend’s wedding. Wow, the room where the wedding was scheduled to take place was packed. The bride, draped in her wedding veil, was already seated in the room waiting for the ceremony to begin. She turned and looked at me when I entered the room. Her head turned but her face was concealed by the veil. I felt a little sheepish for having nicknamed her Walter. If we remained friends over the coming years I would probably tell her the truth. On the other hand, maybe I wouldn’t. It was bad enough that my future wife knew the significance of the nickname but she knew everything about me. From the beginning, I didn’t hold anything back from her. I told her things that she probably wished I had kept to myself. But I wanted her to know all of me. I felt like I had known her my entire life and I was just catching her up on the cracks and crevices that she might have missed.

As I sat there waiting for the ceremony to begin I gradually developed an odd feeling. As I looked around the room I recognized more of these people than I should have known. I couldn’t figure out why so many of my future wife’s family were here at the ceremony. Why would they be attending my best friend’s wedding? I shrugged my shoulders and thought that maybe they were still confused about what time our marriage was to take place. Remember we had traded times with Miss has to go first or Walter as I affectionately referred to her. I didn’t have to trouble my brain for long. The door closed and the ceremony began. My best friend led his bride-to-be to the alter and assisted her as she knelt on the left side. He then came around and knelt opposite of her on the right side of the alter.

When I saw him reach across the alter and take her by the right hand I suddenly knew why my future wife’s family was in the room. That hand resting upon the alter was her hand, the hand that I had held so many evenings as we sat and talked about our future together. That same hand had wrapped around me and drew me to her this very morning as she hugged me and gave me a kiss and teased me about coming to watch her dress for the wedding. I started to stand and put a stop to what was taking place but a firm hand rested upon my shoulder and held me in my seat. A man I had never seen before leaned over and whispered, “The parents got together this morning and decided that you would learn more about life if you married the girl you refer to a Walter. Your choice of a wife was only yours to make so long as that choice was acceptable to the parents involved. Don’t worry, your marriage will still take place at 2:00. And by the way, remember the counsel your father gave you about a successful marriage.”

If I were to tell you that I awoke from my dream at this point with a cold sweat it wouldn’t be the complete truth. The dream didn’t end here but my story ends here. Microsoft Word says that I am telling this dream on a 6.4 grade level. In my dream world I must still be in elementary school. At this rate I won’t graduate to junior high school dreams before I am dead. I can’t wait to see what my junior high dreams will be like. They will probably be similar to my sixth grade dreams; some pleasant, others not so pleasant. Just like life.

The Hollow of His Hand

By Jerry Mack Grubbs
 
As the time approached for my release as Bishop of the Young Adult Ward, I became apprehensive about being able to emotionally let go of all those ward members whom I had come to love so much. My mind raced back to when the previous bishop had been released, and how he suffered during that adjustment. My release was not a surprise. I was instructed when I was called to be bishop that the call was for three years and my release would happen within a couple of weeks of that time frame.
 
The Stake President informed me that I would be replaced the coming Sunday. The night before that Sunday, I poured out my heart to Heavenly Father to help me through this adjustment. The main thing that I wanted to do was make sure that I did not create problems for the new bishop, yet I had come to view these young adults as my own. The instruction that had come from the Stake Presidency was: we love you; we appreciate what you have done for the ward, now please step aside and let the new bishop do his job. I had strong reservations about being able to emotionally step aside.
As I retired for the evening, I was very restless. I did not want the next day to ever come. I could not bear the thought of not being at the Ward with the young adults. I had no desire to return to my home ward. I just wanted things to stay the same way they had been for the last three years. At the beginning of my call as bishop I had never dreamed that I would come to love the members of the ward so much. Now it was all coming to a crashing end. As I drifted off to sleep I experienced the following dream:
We were on a ward outing up in the mountains. The surroundings were familiar, but I was not sure where we actually were. We were hiking up a river drainage with everyone having a great time. Some were having water fights and others were just enjoying the outdoors and nature. I engaged in light conversation with several members of the ward as we worked our way up the shallow river. The bottom of the river bed was rocky, and I remember having to be careful how we stepped because of the slipperiness of the rocks. A couple of members lightly sprained their ankles due to the condition of the river bottom.
I was swept away in thought of how much joy and happiness the ward members had brought into my life. It was indeed the best, most enjoyable calling I had experienced in the church. I do not make light of the calling or imply that everyday was a holiday, but through the thick and thin of it all, I was very happy to be serving where I was.
A couple of the young men got carried away with the water fighting and had to be toned down a little. I knew that they were doing nothing different than l had done as a young adult. While thinking about their actions and my own past experiences, I felt an uneasiness wash over me. I first searched inside myself for definition of the feeling, but finding nothing of significance there, I began to be more aware of my surroundings. I moved a little ahead of the group so that I might listen and hopefully learn something concerning what was going on. I heard nothing. I saw nothing that should be of any alarm. I returned to the group and actually participated in some of the water fighting.
One of the sisters slipped on the rocky bottom and injured her knee on a large stone. I assigned two men in the group to help her. As I, along with the two young men, examined her injury, I felt that same uneasiness wash over me again. This time it was an even stronger feeling. Once again I moved ahead of the group, and this time I vocally expressed my concern and feeling of uneasiness to my Heavenly Father. I plead with Him to give me assurance that He would not leave us to our own demise and that if there was danger ahead that He would make it known to us so that we might properly prepare. As I finished my silent prayer I realized that there were no longer any birds singing or any other of the normal forest sounds. All I could hear was the sound of the river and ward members laughing and playing in the water. Although I still had no definition of what danger might lay ahead, I felt strongly that we should move up the embankment and get out of the bottom of the riverbed.
 
The announcement to move out of the water and up the embankment was not accepted with much enthusiasm. I had to become quite forceful with some of the young men. Eventually everyone complied with the request to travel along the higher slope. I noticed that some did not question the decision. They just accepted the request and moved up the bank without any complaining. Others were more reluctant, needing an explanation of why we couldn't stay in the water where the traveling was much easier. A select few refused to come up the embankment without being issued a direct order to get out of the water. Those same few tried their best to make the journey miserable for the rest of us through their complaining and whining. I remember a sister in the ward suggesting that I allow them to go back down in the water so the rest of us could get some relief from their bickering. I told her that I was the bishop of all the members not just those who willingly obeyed.
 
The way became very difficult as we hiked along the embankment. It was overgrown with briers and vines which made the passage very arduous. For a brief time I even began to doubt my feelings about the supposed danger. As I thought about my responsibilities to the members of the ward, the same feeling of uneasiness swept over me again. This time it was so strong that I immediately told the ward that we were going to get even higher up the embankment. I wondered if my own imagination was getting the best of me. I heard one young man suggest that a group break away and have their own hike where they could have some fun. My faithful counselors put a stop to that talk immediately.
 
Moving further up the embankment had only added to the difficulty of the way. We were in such dense undergrowth that I was fearful that we would become lost. Some of the weaker members were beginning to fatigue from the exertion. I once again poured my heart out to Heavenly Father for help. This time I was not asking why, but what I should do to protect the members from harm. What should we do and where should we go for safety? As I closed my silent prayer one of the more ambitious and energetic young men shouted that he had found a trail. We quickly moved over to the trail and the way became easy once again.
We followed this trail until it led us to a small rundown cabin. There was a shed near the cabin and I could see an old Chevrolet pickup parked inside. It must not have been used in years judging by the amount of dust it carried. I went to the door and knocked without expecting to find anyone living there. To my surprise an elderly lady answered the door. After a pleasant exchange I obtained directions from her how we could get back to a main highway. I encouraged her to come with us because I felt that a danger lay ahead for the area, but I could not define it. She declined the offer and wished us well.
 
We traveled on this well defined dirt road for about an hour when we decided to stop and have our lunch. We gathered under a large oak tree near the road. It appeared to be a land mark for it was taller than anything else around. Many members were now exhausted and just wanted to lie down and rest instead of eat. Some were still talking about how stupid all this was. One suggested that I had concocted all this as some type of weird teaching tool. Five young men and one sister wanted to go ahead of the group on the dirt road and get back to their car as soon as possible. I knew from the elderly lady's comments that we still had half a day's walk before getting back to our vehicles. I was about to give in to their demands when the thought came into my mind to climb the large oak tree and see what was on the distant horizon.
 
Climbing the tree was no easy task. There were no lower branches to grab onto. The members built a pyramid of human bodies to help me reach the first branch. As I climbed higher and higher, I sensed that something terrible was about to happen to this land. As I neared the top of the tree I could see in the distance a large forest fire. It was destroying everything in its path and was moving directly toward us. Behind the fire was a flood of water. I momentarily felt that the water would quench the fire before it reached us, and we could deal with the flood of water by all getting to higher ground. As I began to formulate my plan of defense, the spirit literally shouted to me that the fire would reach us before the water, and we must escape the area if we were to survive. I looked below me, down at the ward members who trusted me and looked to me for guidance and safety. I knew that I would do anything in my power to save them from this harm. Now they were all mostly lying down and resting from the difficult journey that had brought us to this point.
 
While descending the tree I made the decision to tell no one what I had seen with the exception of my counselors, the Elders Quorum Presidency and the Relief Society Presidency. I called a planning meeting and laid out the plan that I would return to the cabin with one strong elder and one strong sister. The rest would remain with the ward members to insure that they remained together until I returned. I selected physically strong members to accompany me because I knew that we would have to run all the way if we were going to get there and back in time to save the ward members. I took a sister to help persuade the elderly lady to come with us. I took a strong elder to help me get the old pickup started if possible. I knew that our only chance of getting out of there in time to beat the fire was with the old pickup. I didn't know how we could all possibly fit into the truck, but that was a problem I would face later.
 
Arriving back at the cabin, we found the elderly lady in her same congenial mood. She assured us that she would be fine and did not want to go with us. Before we could even ask, she suggested that if we could get the truck started we were welcome to take it to aid in our evacuation. As previously thought, the old Chevy pickup hadn't run in years. The three of us, with pushing, pleading and praying were finally able to get it running. We returned once more to the cabin and begged the lady to come with us, but she refused. Reluctantly we left her and headed back for the ward family.
By the time we returned, the smell of smoke was in the air and the ward members were almost in hysteria. Two young men had left on their own, stating that the rest were fools for waiting any longer. We loaded everyone into the pickup. To use the term "into the pickup" would be a lie. We had members on the hood, on the bumpers, in the back and on the roof. I counted eleven just in the cab and I still had to get in to drive. There was a feeling of excitement in the air. We had made a plan and that plan had worked thus far. We said a prayer of thanksgiving and prayed for our continued success. I began to squeeze myself under the steering wheel of the truck. I was almost in, but I couldn't get the door closed. No matter how hard I pulled, the door just wouldn't close. I turned my head back to see what the problem might be. There was another man's hand on the door, preventing it from closing. Just as I. saw the hand a voice said, "Bishop Grubbs, you will not be making the rest of this journey. Your job is complete. I'll be taking your place behind the wheel."
At first I was resistive to the voice. I said that the members were counting on me. They looked to me for safety and assurance of the future. Then, without another word being spoken, I knew that the voice was right and that my mission was complete. I stepped out of the truck and another slipped under the wheel. Some of the members upon seeing that I had gotten out of the truck jumped down and said that they were not going if I was not going. All of a sudden I knew that no matter what happened to me I had to persuade them to get back on the truck and flee the impending firestorm. With some coaxing they all got back on the truck with a promise that they would look for the others who had not chosen to wait.
 
As the old Chevy pickup slowly began to move forward the members turned and waived farewell to me. At first I was sad, but then I realized that although I may never see some of them again, no one could take away the sweet memories they had brought into my life; how they had accepted me, taught me, and loved me.
As the truck lumbered down the dirt road carrying its heavy load, I could hear the ward members singing the song "In the Hollow of Thy Hand." As the truck disappeared around a curve in the road, suddenly I was all alone. The thought came into my mind, what will happen to me? Is this where I will loose my life? Then, just as strong as any feeling I have ever experienced from the spirit, a voice whispered inside of me, "No, not yet, you have an elderly lady back at the cabin to take care of." I began to run with all my might and strength back down the dirt road toward the cabin. As I ran I began to plan how I would get her to go with me and how we would shield ourselves from this fire and survive the flood.
Most of my dreams are of little significance. But this dream did have significance. It rested upon my soul. It brought me the peace that I sought from my Heavenly Father to help me through this transition in my life. Did my dream make the transition and release as the bishop of the young adult ward easy? No, but it made it less difficult. I felt as though I was in the Hollow of His hand.

A Place in Time

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

Prologue: I watched an old movie called Cast Away staring Tom Hanks. In the movie Tom Hanks is marooned on a remote island after a plane crash. He learns to survive on the contents of FedEx packages that wash ashore from the crash. I fell asleep thinking about what I would want to have with me if I became stranded on a deserted island for an extended period of time.

The Dream: It was Sunday evening and we had enjoyed a family dinner together. I was slumped back on the living room couch with a contented full stomach and one of my grandsons on my lap. Laziness had already crept up my spine and I felt glued to the couch. The grandchildren were running in and out so the front door was open. Without knocking, a tall man dressed in a dark grey suit and sunglasses stepped through the door and into the foyer. He asked, “Is this the Grubbs home?” I said yes and asked who he was looking for. He didn’t answer my question but said, “I came to give you a message. Someone dear to you has been sentenced to spend three years on a deserted island. Anyone present in your home tonight can serve the sentence in this person’s place if they choose.” “Who is this person who is dear to me?” I asked. “You will not be given that information,” he replied. “What was the crime and what purpose will be served by someone spending three years on a remote island?” I asked. “The act may or may not have been intentional but whether a person falls or is pushed from a cliff, the resulting injury at the end of the fall is the same,” he said. “If no one comes forward and volunteers to meet our requirements, I will return in seven days to escort the guilty person to the island. Just remember, whoever you select to serve this sentence will have no contact with the outside world for three years.”

I must have decided in my heart that I would be the one to go because I handed my grandson to his mother and immediately went to my room and began gathering items for a survival pack to take with me. I selected a knife, a folding saw, two aluminum space blankets, a nylon rope and two watertight cases of matches. I packed my halogen headlamp and twenty-four fresh batteries along with a water purification pump. I gathered a complete change of clothes including a large brimmed hat and sunglasses. I went to the garden shed and put corn and tomato seeds into plastic Ziploc bags. Last of all I put six writing tablets along with pens and pencils into my backpack. I wanted to record my experiences on the island or at least let someone know what became of me.

Just one day prior to my scheduled departure I was told that I would be allowed to take one person chosen from those who had been present at the family dinner to stay on the island with me. My dad immediately volunteered but I knew his health would be compromised by such an ordeal. In reality I couldn’t ask him or any other person at the dinner to put their life on hold for three years. As much as I didn’t want to spend that time all alone, the idea of someone else making that sacrifice tore at my heartstrings. I was adamant that no one else would be going with me. On the outside I was standing brave. On the inside I revealed my personality flaws even if it was only to myself by wishing that someone would argue with my decision or suggest taking my place. I knew what my answer would be but it would have been nice for someone to offer. I chided myself for such childish and immature feelings. Everyone present that night knew that I was the best choice to make this sacrifice. My children were grown and I was healthy and willing.

The visitor to our home was true to his word. Just seven days after that visit it was time to leave for the island. Everyone present at the family dinner was invited to join me on a beautiful ocean yacht for the journey to the island. The yacht had every amenity you could imagine. Beautiful state rooms and a banquet style kitchen open from six in the morning until midnight was at our disposal. We lived in luxury those seven days it took for us to reach sight of the island where I would spend the next three years of my life. On the eighth day, with the yacht anchored some distance off shore, my family and friends gathered on the front deck to bid me farewell. A motorized dingy was lowered down to the water in preparation for my departure. With the hugs and well-wishes complete I told the man in the dark grey suit and sunglasses that I was ready to be taken to the island. He motioned for two large men to join him. With no warning they grabbed me and threw me to the deck of the yacht. They removed my backpack, hat, shoes, socks, belt and the items in my pockets. As the two men held me down on the deck the man in the sunglasses picked up my backpack and dumped its contents over the side of the ship, making sure that the Ziploc bags filled with corn and tomato seeds were torn, spilling the seeds into the ocean. My family and friends stood in shocked disbelief.

Without saying a word the two men lifted me off the deck of the ship and threw me over the side. I tried to prepare for the impact with the water below but only managed to flail in the air as I descended and hit the ocean in a slightly vertical position. The dingy was only a hundred feet away but as I began to swim toward it, the yacht put its engines in reverse and backed away from me with the dingy still tied to its hull. I was left all alone to swim a long distance to the island. I was frightened by what might be lurking in the water beneath me. Fear also gripped me just thinking about what else the man in the dark grey suit and sunglasses might not have told me about the island where I would spend the next three years of my life. True, he had not told me that I could take anything with me but he knew I had prepared a backpack and he had said nothing. As the yacht moved toward the distant horizon, I realized that my loved ones would not even know if I made it to the island. I began to swim.

Hours later, the waves lapped at my tired body as I lay exhausted on the beach. I was totally spent from the swim after I had been thrown from the yacht that carried my family and friends away. As my mental faculties returned, the first thing I noticed was my head being stroked in a familiar way by a gentle hand. Looking up with surprise I said, “What are you doing here?” “I came to be with you,” was the reply. “You can’t stay here,” I said. “I have to stay. My fate was sealed with yours when the yacht sailed away. I knew you would never agree with my decision to stay with you so I came to the island ahead of you. The man in the grey suit and sunglasses brought me over before sunrise. I have been waiting for you. I chose to do it this way so that there would not be an argument between us about my decision,” explained my island companion.

As I sat up in the wet sand and looked around, I noticed six cornels of corn seed that had washed ashore from my spilled backpack. I wondered if the salt water of the ocean had damaged the seeds. I quickly calculated that if I planted those six cornels and each grew and produced two ears of corn, in seventy-eight days I would have plenty of corn seed to plant and harvest in the future. I washed the seeds off in rain water that had collected in an upturned seashell and we went to look for a suitable place to plant them. Although it would require twice as much food to feed two people, I was glad I wasn’t alone. What would people say when the yacht returned in three years to pick us up? I decided to not worry about things I had no control over.

After planting the corn we explored part of the island. We scratched a mark on a large rock symbolizing day one with one thousand and ninety-four days remaining. Of course that didn’t take into account leap year. But what difference would one day make? We walked on the beach and were dazzled by a beautiful sunset. As night fell, we covered ourselves in sun-warmed sand to block the chill of the night breeze. Lying on my back and looking up at the stars that began to appear in the sky, I whispered a silent prayer of gratitude that I wasn’t alone. We called this island home A Place in Time.

Droplets of Diamonds

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

It was called Rattlesnake Canyon before a more inviting name was adopted. As I climbed the trail that crisscrossed the creek I encountered two rattlesnakes. No wonder this place was called Rattlesnake Canyon. Several times I started to turn back and find another place to do my hike and get my exercise. Something inside nudged me on. I wanted to make it to the top of the canyon and see the source of this stream. I pushed on until noon where I stopped by the creek and ate a sandwich from my daypack. After a brief rest I pushed on up the canyon.

In the early afternoon I came upon a third rattlesnake. This one was stretched out sunning in the middle of the trail. I found a long stick and poked the snake to encourage it to move out of my way. The snake refused to move. It would give a brief rattle of its tail to warn me off. Because of the steepness of the terrain I couldn't get around the snake. I felt like an intruder into the snake's territory but it was blocking me from my destination so I continued to agitate the snake in hopes it would move away and let me pass. Finally the snake moved into the heavy brush next to the trail. Now I had a worse situation. I could no longer see the snake or the threat it imposed. I had to decide whether I would take the chance to move on up the path in hopes that the snake had moved away or at least would let me pass unharmed.

Although it is difficult to explain now, at the time I felt compelled to go on. I crowded the far side of the trail and cautiously moved along, listening for the tale tale sign of those rattlers signaling a state of agitation by the snake. I passed by unharmed and proceeded on my journey. The trail became steeper and more difficult. The vegetation became denser. For a while the images of the snakes I encountered on my hike dominated my thoughts. Behind every log, nestled next to every bush that crowded the trail, my imagination saw another deadly rattlesnake lying in wait to plant it sharp fangs into my unprotected ankle.

As time passed I began to look up more and enjoy the creations of nature around me. Eventually I came to the headwaters of the creek that fed this canyon. The crystal clear water came pouring out of the rocks from an underground source fed by snowmelt from higher mountains. It sparkled in the afternoon sun. Just below this feature was a natural pool about four feet deep. I slipped off my boots and cooled my feet in the water. I decided that more than just my feet would enjoy a refreshing soak so I slipped off my clothes and slid into the pool. I laid my head back on the bank and let my submerged body lap up the experience.

I must have dozed off because I awoke with a start. The noise that awakened me was a woman standing in the middle of the pool. She acted as though I wasn't even there. I assumed she stood with her back to me to safeguard my privacy. I covered myself with my hands and said nothing but continued to observe her. I watched in silence as she dipped her hair into the pool and let rivulets of water streaming from her hair cool her neck and back. She did this repeatedly, each time pushing her hair back out of her face. Droplets of water beaded on her shoulders and back and sparkled like diamonds in the sunlight. I felt so relaxed I forgot I was undressed. Then she looked over at me and smiled I knew her. When our eyes met, I awoke. I had been dreaming. The experience was so vivid I looked around to see where she had disappeared to. But she was gone. I closed my eyes and tried to will her back into my mind. It was no use.

I climbed out the pool and dried in the warmth of the afternoon sun. After dressing and lacing up my hiking boots, I gathered up my daypack and headed back down the canyon. I saw no rattlesnakes but maybe I wasn't looking for any. My eyes were looking up, not down.

This experience came to me on the 6th of August, 2004, almost three years ago, but it is as fresh in my mind today as it was then. I would paint you a picture if I were an artist and could convey on canvas what my dream showed me that day. But then, you are entitled to your own dreams and your own interpretations. I wouldn't spoil that for anything.

The Whistle Stop

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

The day had been long and hot. I was looking forward to stopping by the train station to buy a bottle of root beer as I walked home from work. Sometimes the electricity would be off at the station and the drinks would not be cold. I was hoping that was not the case today. My wish was granted. The drink box was ice cold and so was the bottle of root beer. I walked outside so I could enjoy the little breeze that stirred around the building. I settled into a chair, leaned back against the wall and began to let my mind wander as I sipped my root beer. I was startled out of my daydreaming by the blast of a train whistle.

I remember so clearly, leaning back in my chair that day as the train slowly approached and came to a stop. I knew that the train would only be there briefly for passengers to board. I wondered why the train had stopped because there were no passengers scurrying around, saying last goodbyes and arranging luggage. No one ever got off the train in our little town except locals returning home so I was quite surprised when a beautiful young lady stepped off the train. I brought my chair down and leaned forward to get a getter look. She wore a white blouse that buttoned down the front and her blue jeans were tight against her hips. She wasn’t married. At least she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.

From the moment I saw her I knew I would talk to her and find out what brought her to our little town. I approached her with no clue of what I would say. Before I had a chance to gather my thoughts she said, “Do you know where I could get a cold root beer?” I fumbled in my pocket for another nickel and said, “I’ll be right back.” She thanked me for the root beer and offered to reimburse me but I declined. In her kind way she explained that she was on a long journey and had just stepped off the train to stretch her legs. I asked if I could walk with her and she cautiously agreed. Her words seemed reluctant but her eyes said, “Yes.” We walked in silence for a while and then it was as if I had known her all my life. I told her about my family and what it was like growing up in a small town. I even shared the feelings that washed over me when I saw her step down off the train. She blushed slightly but said nothing. My openness about my feelings probably made her a little uncomfortable but it was like she was a part of me and could sense what was going on inside of me regardless of whether I told her or not. I talked, she listened. I knew as we walked together along the train tracks that I would never forget that day: that I would carry a memory of her with me for the rest of my life.

The whistle blew signaling that the train would soon depart the station. I savored the last few moments we spent together and then she casually stepped back on the train and was gone. I strained to see if she would step back out of the doorway, wave, and acknowledge me in some small way. She didn’t. As the train pulled out of the station I hoped that by some miracle she had stepped off the train on the other side and would be standing there smiling at me. She wasn’t. Some people come into our lives and are soon gone. Others touch us in a way that we are never ever the same again. I cherish those moments spent with her.

As time passes and the sound of the train whistle grows dim, I still remember the feelings of that day. As I lean back in my chair against the clapboard wall of the train station, I close my eyes and wait for the sound of the whistle that will bring the memories of her flooding back. And along with those memories is a lingering hope that she might pass my way again. She hasn’t. Not at the train station anyway, but at other times and in other places.

Bringing me back to my senses the station clerk said, “You owe me a deposit for that pop bottle the young lady took.” I reached into my pocket, withdrew a penny and handed it to the clerk. It was the best penny I ever spent. For sometime thereafter, I carried a penny in my back pocket. When I thought of the young woman who stepped off that train and came into my life I would reach into my pocket, touch the penny, and instantly feel closer to her. I no longer carry the penny but I still have it. I no longer think I will dream of her stepping off that train again but I have the memory and that is enough. She looked straight ahead as she stepped back on the train. I still wish that she had looked back if only for a moment. Remember, the best memories are measured not in days, not in hours but in brief moments, moments that change our lives.

The Cabin

By Jerry Mack Grubbs
 
Forward: Last week I was invited to spend some time at my sister-in-law, Diane's cabin. As I turned the corner and the cabin came into view, it was as though I had been there before in a dream. My dream took place three years ago and I recorded it in what I call my other journal. I'm like a packrat; I bury things that I'm not quite ready to get rid of but have no plans of sharing with others. I wanted to remember the details of that dream so I flew out to Fremont Island and dug up the plastic container that housed those pages of my experiences and dreams.

My son-in-law, Wade, told me that chronically depressed people are people who live in the past and anxiety prone people are those who constantly worry and fret over the future. He didn't have a definition for people who are chronic dreamers. Whether by curse or by blessing, I am of that category. I tell my family that I have a special cream I call my dream cream that I rub on my face and hands each night before falling asleep.

Prologue: It was the winter of our lives. I say winter because of the grey in our hair. Well, mostly the grey in my hair. How we came to live in this high mountain cabin or where it is located is a mystery to me. But a dream doesn't cry out for details of the past. You know how dreams are . . .

The Dream: Our cabin is so remote that our mail is dropped in by plane once every two weeks. But that is okay. We have no utility bills to pay because we have no utilities.  Our mail consists of letters from our children and an occasional catalogue informing us of all that we are missing in the latest fashions. Our provisions are meager but our garden supplemented by wild game keeps us a little larger around the middle than is needful.

We work hard but we work at what brings us pleasure. When the day is done we also rest hard. Our pastime is reading good books; taking long walks and sitting on the cabin porch watching the breeze disturb the aspen leaves of the trees that surround our little home.

After supper we sit on the porch and talk about what we did today although we did it together. We discuss the book we took turns reading out loud to one another. As we crawl between the sheets that sun-dried on the clothesline she draws her knee up over me and rests her arm on my chest. I fall asleep listening to her little puffs of restful breathing.

At breakfast we talk about going to town. Town is a two day horseback ride. We go four or five times a year and spend a week in a local motel as we gather supplies, call the children who catch us up on their busy lives and always remind us of how crazy we are. I suppose we are crazy. By the end of the week we are lonesome for home and the beauties of nature that can only be appreciated when you sit still long enough to watch an ant crawl across the porch or a robin build a nest one twig at a time.

The hurry has been taken out of this phase of our lives. We move in a simple, natural way just like the garden by our cabin that only responds to the laws of nature. Just try to force a seed to spout and you'll soon discover how little power you really have. We are powerless to turn back the clock of time or see clearly what the future holds. With no one to keep the roof repaired our little cabin in the mountains will one day be gone just as each of us will be gone. But today we still repair the roof and plant the garden. We have agreed that should I die first, she will not try to stay here alone. Should she die first, I know I will not stay here alone. It wouldn't be the same without her. The snow wouldn't be as white in winter. The trees wouldn't be as green in spring. And the nights would be too lonely without her arm across my chest and the sound of her peaceful breathing.

We are told that the pine beetles are infesting and killing the trees but there will still be trees when we are gone. We see more contrails from jet aircraft crossing the blue sky carrying busy travelers to their destinations but the wind always blows them away. Occasionally we hear the report of a distant rifle from a big game hunt. But it is a rare occasion in deed for us to have an unexpected dinner guest. If someone finds us, they are most likely lost. She feeds them, makes them comfortable for the night and after a hearty breakfast, we send them on their way. They are usually in a hurry to get back to their real lives. They will miss the robin as she builds her nest for her future family. They will miss the golden eagle that soars above the ridge that overlooks our cabin each morning.  They may miss these things but they won't long for them. They will be content to lean back in a swivel chair and for a brief moment look up at a painting of a majestic scene framed and hanging on an office wall.

How fortunate they are to be where they want to be, doing what they want to do. How blessed I feel to be here where the stars are bright and the sky is blue; where she and I communicate more with a momentary glance than most say with a mouthful of words.

Too Weak to Fish

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

Prologue to a Dream: On April 26th of this year I fell asleep reading a book about Mother Teresa called “The Simple Path.” A particular quote from the book caught my attention. At one time Mother Teresa was chastised for providing too much help to the poor. When she was reminded of the phrase, feed a man a fish and you have fed him for a day; teach a man to fish and you have fed him for a life time, she simply stated, “The people we feed are too weak to fish.” I fell asleep with her comment on my mind . . .

“I wish we had two fishing poles?” she complained. “I’m glad we have two hooks to put on our fishing line. It’s almost the same as having two poles,” I said. “Why can’t we have two poles?” she asked. “Because we have no money to buy another pole,” I answered. “I get tired of just sitting here watching you fish,” she said. “Here, you take the pole and fish for a while and I will just sit and watch you.” “Don’t you ever get tired of looking at me?” she asked. “Not yet,” I said. “What does that mean?” she asked. “It means, not yet.” “You’re going to drive me crazy with that kind of answer.” “I don’t want to drive you crazy but if you go crazy, I will still love you.”

“I wish we had a boat. If we had a boat we could paddle over to those reeds were the big fish hide,” she said. “I’m glad that old fisherman took pity on us and gave us this fishing pole. We have been able to catch enough fish for our needs each day. We are blessed,” I said. “Well, I don’t feel blessed,” came her reply. I just smiled. I knew she was just giving me a hard time. I knew her heart.

“We already have three fish, let’s go swimming,” she said. “It’s only spring and the water will be too cold; besides, we didn’t bring anything to swim in,” I said. “I don’t need anything if you don’t,” she teased. “We are not going swimming,” I said with clinched teeth to slam the door on the subject. “Why do you always have to get your way?” she whined. I didn’t answer her. But I wondered if she felt protected and safe with me or just bullied. I pulled the wire basket from the edge of the water that contained our catch of three fish. She would cook two fish for our dinner and we would share the third for tomorrow’s breakfast before we came back down to the river to fish again. I knew we couldn’t live on fish alone but fish was certainly better than nothing. Fish would have to do until we figured out something to go with it.

She was a good cook but I would have loved her even if she couldn’t cook. Thinking of her cooking, my mind went back to the time before our world turned upside down, money became worthless and the economy was in shambles. When I look at our life now I realize how simple it was before the change. Although it was simple, we were happy then and we are happy now.

After returning from the river we sat in front of our little home and she cleaned the fish while I straightened out the tangled fishing line and sharpened the two hooks against a smooth river stone. I thought of the nights we had gone to bed hungry before the old fisherman came by our home on his way to the river. She took a drink of water out to him and because it was getting late she invited him to have dinner with us. That’s how she was; it didn’t matter that all we had to eat was potatoes and rice. The old fisherman slept on our couch that night and before he left the next morning, he gave us one of his fishing poles. I protested the gift but he insisted, saying that he only carried two poles in case one broke. After he left I saw that he had tied two hooks about six feet apart to the fishing line. It was the next best thing to having two poles. She and I could now catch food at the river.

I rarely think of my life before I met her. And I didn’t want to think about life without her. She had been married before and her husband had died in a fiery accident. She seldom talked about him and when I asked questions, her answers were always short and the message she sent to me was I don’t want to talk about it. So we didn’t talk about him. The way she looked at me and touched me caused any shred of jealously about her former life to flee from my mind like a mouse being chased by a famished cat.

That’s how it was between us that day as we sat in front of our little home and cleaned fish, straightened out fishing lines and sharpened the two hooks for tomorrow. Just before it was time to go in for the evening a man came walking down the road. She reached over and touched my arm but I had already spotted him. He had a severe limp and was struggling to maintain his balance as he walked. She was sitting by my side but just a little back of me so I couldn’t see her expression but I knew what she was going to say before she said it, “Looks like that man could use some help. You suppose he likes fish?” I knew that there would be three fish cooked tonight and a guest would be spending the night on our couch with as much comfort as she could provide.

As the lame man grew close she made a small gasping sound. I turned to look at her but her expression caused me to return my attention to the man coming toward us. That was the first I noticed that he didn’t have any lips and his face and head were covered with scars and skin grafts. There were tiny sprigs of hair scattered here and there on his bald head like patches of weeds in an unkempt garden. He had no ears and one eye lid only partially closed when he blinked. My first thought was that this man needed far more help than just a fish to eat and a comfortable couch to spend a night on. But how could we help, we could barely feed ourselves?

“It’s so good to be home,” he said. Because he had no lips his words came out in a hissing sound but there was no question what he had said. She gasped again but didn’t say a word. He walked past us and started toward the front door and said once again, “It’s so good to be home.” I didn’t know what to say but I knew who he was. He was horribly burned. He was home. This had been their home before his accident. If he was alive then we weren’t legally married. I sat there in a stupor not knowing what to say or do. As he struggled to the door, a part of me wanted to jump up and help him but the other part felt frozen to my chair, not knowing what to do. While my mind was in turmoil my body went into motion and I ran to help him inside.

As he sat down on the edge of the bed I could tell that his feet were hurting so I asked if he would like for me to remove his shoes. He nodded, “Yes.” I knelt down before him and unlaced them. When I pulled off his shoes, the skin on his feet sloughed away also. The sight of his damaged feet caused me to throw up but I held it in my mouth and swallowed it back down. He told me not to worry; his body was rejecting the skin grafts on his feet. I carefully slid my arms under he legs and eased them down on the bed so he could rest.

All this time she stood behind me, watching every thing that took place. It was as though she was unable to speak, needing to assess her life, her future. That’s when it occurred to me that it wasn’t just my life that had changed. She would care for this man for as long as he lived, no matter what. I knew her. She couldn’t squash a bug on the floor but would carry it outside and let it go. She would care for her husband as long as he drew breath in the same tender way she had cared for me.

I couldn’t look at her. I knew if I looked at her I would break down and that wasn’t what she needed right now. I turned to leave and the first words she uttered to me since her husband had come back into her life were, “Will you be taking the fishing pole?” “No, it is as much yours as it is mine. You said this afternoon that you wanted your own pole. Be careful what you wish for.” “You should at least take one of the fishing hooks,” she said. “You keep them both; your husband is too weak to fish. Besides, I still have the rifle.” “But you don’t have any bullets,” she said. It didn’t matter. There was a time when she and I didn’t have a fishing pole and we were happy. There was a time when she invited a stranger to have a meager supper of potatoes and rice and spend the night. And we were happy.

She followed me across the room and as I opened the door to leave, she spoke in a whisper so as not to disturb her resting husband and said, “What do you wish?” Our eyes met as I turned to face her. It was the first time we had looked at each other since her husband had walked back into our lives. “You know the old saying,” I said. “If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.” “You always say that. I hate that saying,” she said. I knew she wanted me to say that I wished he had died in the fire. I had never lied to her and I wouldn’t start now. I reached up and touched her cheek as I said, “What I wish is that we had swam in the river today when you only had eyes for me.” I turned, stepped through the doorway and didn’t look back. Walking down the crumbling asphalt road I avoided the cracks and repeated the phrase, “Step on a crack, break your back, step on a crack, break your back.” Dodging the cracks in the asphalt and saying those words helped me shut out the other feelings trying to peal me like an onion and expose my pain. I didn’t look back. I was afraid she wouldn’t be standing in the doorway with tear filled eyes watching me walk away.

Vanished

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

With only the barrel of my gun poking out from under the leaves of my hiding place, I aimed at the head of my target. I moved the gun just enough to allow the crosshairs of my scope to center over his heart. I was only seconds away from firing the shot that would take the life of a living breathing creature. Once the trigger was pulled the bullet could not be called back. The decision would be final but if I hesitated I might be spotted and the opportunity for a clean shot would vanish. I exhaled slowly to expel all the air from my lungs. With my body rock still and steady, I squeezed the trigger. My Remington 270 bolt-action rifle kicked and the bullet left the barrel and traveled toward its mark. By the time I heard the crack of the rifle he toppled over from the impact of the bullet.

I had spent considerable time preparing for this moment. The previous day I scouted the area, first finding were the herd bedded down at night and the trail that the elk made as they moved to and from that secluded place. The same afternoon I spent some quiet time sitting and observing the surroundings. I wanted to determine the general direction of the wind so that I could position myself downwind of the incoming animals because elk have a keen sense of smell. Being positioned downwind of these wild creatures was essential for a successful takedown. Today I didn’t want the slightest movement to be noticed so I camouflaged my gun barrel with mud because it was shiny and made of stainless steel. Elk do not distinguish color but they are easily alerted by movement. I found a fallen tree about fifty yards from the trail. Lying prone behind that tree, I covered myself with a blanket of leaves as though the wind had blown them against the log. Now it was time for the hardest part . . . patiently wait and remain as still as possible.

This would be my third elk to take home if I proved successful in my hunt. The first was a cow elk that my son shot proxy for me. Proxy means to stand in for or to take the place of. I know it is illegal to shoot a game animal by proxy but it was the last day of the hunt and I injured my back lifting snowmobiles for the trip into the woods. I was in so much pain I could not raise my rifle and hold it still long enough to take a shot. I’m not trying to justify my behavior of having my son shoot the elk. I am just explaining what led up to that decision. I named that first elk Ethyl. You might think it odd to give a name to an animal that you were going to kill and eat. I have always valued life and the sacrifice that is made by an animal that gives its live for my benefit. This tradition of naming the animals I personally shoot started when I shot a hog in the back woods of South Georgia. I named that hog Dexter and we recognized him for his sacrifice each time he showed up on our dinner plates.

The second elk to be served at our table was Nate. His real name was Nathaniel but I shortened it to Nate. Today I employed the same technique I used when I successfully tracked and shot Nate. Nate followed textbook behavioral patterns just like the guide on my first hunt, Cal Haskell, taught me. Nate, the bull elk waited for all the cow elk to cross the clearing before he ventured into the open. For a few moments I was upset at myself for not going ahead and taking an available shot at the largest cow. I was mentally kicking myself for all the time I had laid in the snow behind a fallen tree in the mountains of Southwest Wyoming and now I would probably go home empty handed. Snow was falling and light was fading. As I was about to stand and brush the snow from my clothing, the bull elk stepped into the edge of the clearing. Sniffing the air for danger and sensing no alarm, he eased out into the meadow and followed the path that the cows had previously walked. A bull elk is always willing to sacrifice the cow elk for his own safety. The bull lets the lead cow saunter out into the unprotected open area. The remaining cows follow her and if they experience no danger crossing the clearing, about two minutes later the bull elk makes his way across the clearing. That certainly doesn’t sound very chivalrous but I didn’t write the rules of nature. I just studied them to try and use them to my advantage. If a hunter shoots one of the cows as they cross the open meadow, the bull reverses course and heads into the safety of the dense vegetation. The hunter never even knows that a bull was present.

Today my hunting permit was a combination permit that allowed me to shoot either a bull or a cow elk. I decided that I would hunt for a young bull. He would be larger than the cows and provide more meat but he wouldn’t be tough to eat like the old larger bulls of the forest. These younger bulls usually had only eight to ten cows that they had successfully stolen from a larger heard. I wasn’t worried about the survival of the herd if I shot the bull. There were always young bulls lingering beyond the tree line waiting for an opportunity to move in and take over. As you can see, the bull elk doesn’t provide protection for his harem. He uses them for his own protection and is willing to sacrifice them to preserve his own life. He will desert them once they were heavy with calf and he will spend the winter months either alone or with other bulls. It is like joining a bachelor club with other bull elk who were your arch enemies just a few months ago. In some ways these bulls are like men; they get along great together until they fall in love with the same female and then the swords are drawn. Or in the case of bull elk, the antlers begin to clash.

Today things looked perfect. I moved into position in the mid afternoon so that I would be in place well ahead of the herd’s return to the secluded bedding place. That is provided that the elk made the decision to return to this same place they had used for sleeping for several nights. If it is a moonlit night the elk will often feed through the night and sleep during the day. Tonight would be dark and they would bed down until dawn. There was a light breeze in the air that worked to my advantage for two reasons. First the wind was in the direction that carried my sent away from the trail and second, the rustling of the leaves in the wind helped muffle any rustling of leaves I might make as I adjusted in my hiding place behind the log. The time spent waiting wasn’t nearly as bad as I sometimes make it sound. I love the solitude of the forest. It brings peace to my heart as I hold perfectly still, only moving my eyes as I observe nature in all its glory. I use this quiet time to engage my mind and reflect upon pleasant memories of my yesterdays. Keeping my mind active reliving old memories also helps me not focus on how cold or wet or uncomfortable I might be at the moment.

This elk hunt was taking place in the Canadian Rockies so I decided to name my bull elk something that started with a “C” for Canada. I chose the name Clayton and I could already imagine the family referring to Clayton when we sat around the dinner table. At least I hoped that I would be successful and that Clayton would be invited to dinner on many future occasions. But what happened next changed all that. Sitting around the table enjoying a home cooked meal with family and friends was part of my past, not my future. I would not be going home and Clayton would not even be a name known by my family.

As the sun began to set the elk herd did return to the secluded bedding place just like I hoped. The cows all followed the lead cow in single file like dairy cows headed for the barn to be milked. They were a beautiful site and I could have easily shot one of them but I was waiting for Clayton to come along. If my plan worked, the bull elk would soon follow them up the trail. One minute passed then two minutes and Clayton didn’t show. Maybe something had spooked him. I decided to give him more time. I knew that I could easily wait until just before dark and work my way down to were the cows were grouped together and possibly get a shot at one of them before they startled and fled all directions. Down deep inside I was mentally begging for Clayton to come into my view. All the preparation, all the planning was for this one minute . . . and it looked like Clayton was going to be a no-show.

Then above the rustling of the leaves I could hear a noise that I did not recognize at first. To my surprise it was a group of men talking in hushed tones as they walked along the tree line of the clearing. Eyeing them through my scope I could see that they all carried guns but the guns were not hunting rifles. They were automatic military combat style weapons. No wonder Clayton hadn’t shown. He was probably two miles away by now with all the noise this group was making even though they were speaking in muffled tones.

With all this noise my plans were collapsing around me. Clayton would not be coming this way. He would probably not come back all season unless it was to gather up his harem. And he would only do that if some of the cows had not conceived yet. It was certain that my bull elk Clayton would not be paying us a visit at the dinner table this season. There would be no stories of how I outsmarted the young bull. I never really understood this macho business anyway. Take a creature of the forest who can easily travel forty miles a day or stand perfectly still for an hour to evade detection and pit him against a rifle bullet that travels in excess of thirty-one hundred feet per second with a knock down force of a hundred pound sledge hammer and where is the macho in all that.

Suddenly everything was reversed; I felt like the one being hunted. Although these men didn’t know that I was even there, I felt the hair rise on the back of my neck as I realized that these men were of Middle Eastern descent. I was afraid. Lying by the fallen tree trunk under the cover of leaves I was so focused on what was taking place that I forgot to breathe. Suddenly my lungs were about to burst for lack of oxygen and I had to force myself to breathe steady and slow. This was no time to panic and reveal my hiding place.

What were these men doing out in the mountains of the Canadian Rockies? The small packs on their backs revealed that they were not prepared for long term camping but were most likely just moving through the area. I couldn’t understand a word they were saying although they were only fifty yards from me. With a sickening feeling it occurred to me that these men may be attempting to travel through the country undetected? If this were the case they would kill me on sight. I had to remain unseen and somehow get back to civilization and warn the authorities of what I had discovered. Hunting was no longer on my mind. In fact, hunting for that bull elk Clayton seemed like an event that occurred days ago instead of just moments in the past. Surviving to warn someone about what was going on was my only concern. I now wished that the barrel of my gun was not even poking out of the leaves of my hiding place. I wanted to be invisible, to disappear into the ground until danger passed.

The large sniper’s scope mounted on my rifle only added to the possibility that I would be spotted. My sons had chided me about having a sniper’s scope on my rifle. The scope was a present from a friend who thought I needed every advantage possible. Not wanting to move anymore than necessary I decided to leave my rifle in place although it was visible if someone looked directly at it. Through the powerful light-gathering sniper’s scope I slowly scanned the faces of the men. I was stabbed with fear and my mind didn’t want to believe what my eyes were seeing. I recognized one of the men in the middle of the group as Bin Laden, the most hunted terrorist in modern history. I recognized him from having seen him on TV. My heart raced. I brought his face into sharp focus just to make sure my mind wasn’t playing tricks on me. Yes, this was the man I had grown to despise. Not because of anything he did to me personally but for his open declaration to destroy us as a nation. The government and news media judged him guilty and now I had the chance to eliminate him. I knew that killing him would mean forfeiting my own life. I continued to shift the view in my scope back and forth between his heart and his head. A battle was raging inside of me. I knew that if I did not act soon I might be discovered and any chance of eliminating the world of this terrorist would be gone. I thought of my family. I thought how insignificant my sacrifice would be compared to the alternative of letting him live and continue to wage war against my country.

As I lay there under the cover of leaves behind the fallen tree I wondered what had brought me here. Why was I here at this moment in time with a high powered rifle equipped with a sniper’s scope? In the chamber was a 140 grain Boat-Tail Special-Performance bullet. The safety was off and the most hunted fugitive in the world was unaware that he was in the crosshairs of my scope? I didn’t feel brave. I didn’t feel lucky. I only felt duty. I wished that someone who wanted to be a hero was here in my place. I wish that someone who had trained for years and years for this very moment was here to realize the fulfillment of his lifelong training. But it was me. I was the one lying behind this tree covered in leaves with a gun pointed at this fugitive.

I knew that whether I was successful in taking this terrorist’s life or not, I would not be heard from again. My family would never know what happened to me. I just went hunting one day and never came home. I just vanished. My situation reminded me of the story of my great great grandfather. One morning after breakfast he put on his hat and went out to plow the field. When he didn’t return at suppertime a family member was sent to find him. The old mule was standing in the middle of the field still harnessed to the plow. And my great great grandfather’s hat was lying on the ground nearby. That was all that was ever found of him. He was never seen or heard from again. He just vanished. After days pasted and he did not return, the family decided that their father and husband just grew weary of his responsibilities and walked away. Will my loved ones have similar thoughts about me when they never heard from me again? That thought pained my heart even more than the thought of dying.

Whether anyone ever knew what happed to me or not, if I took this terrorist’s life I understood that his legacy might live on for years with the world continuing to believe that he was alive. There would probably be news reports and sightings of him to make the public think that he was still leading his followers. But one American would know that blood no longer flowed through his veins. And this little Remington 270 bolt-action rifle would instantly become the most famous rifle in the world. But it would never be auctioned off to the highest bidder. It would be lost to history; left to rust away in a high mountain Canadian meadow next to me, buried in a hastily dug shallow grave to hide the evidence of what occurred this day.

I thought of my wallet inside my hip pocket and what personal information it might contain that could lead to retribution on my family. I desired to destroy all items of personal identification that I didn’t want found by these men. If I hid the whole wallet they would probably look for it. I scraped out a shallow area of dirt beneath the fallen tree and hid my identification information. I left a copy of a poem in my wallet I had written some years earlier. The poem was about love and I wanted these men who seemed so full of hate to know that I knew what love was. Even though I would be despised by them for what I was about to do, I now understood what it meant to give your life for what you believe.

I thought of the families who had lost loved ones during the 9-11 attack on the World Trade Center Towers. I reflected on other acts of violence around the world such as the attack on the USS Cole in Yemen and the attack on the Marine barracks in Beirut, Lebanon. I not only thought of the Americans who had lost their lives through these terrorist attacks but the tragedy and heartache on the other side of this battle as well. What about all the young men and women being recruited by these terrorist organizations who are teaching them to hate and to kill? What about the families of the suicide bombers? They were often unwilling participants to this tragedy as they lost loved ones also. Was this terrorist positioned in the crosshairs of my sniper’s scope the personification of evil hidden under the costume of human skin? Were all these questions and thoughts bombarding my mind merely my self-justification for taking a human life?

I was only seconds away from firing the shot that would take the life of a living breathing creature. Once the trigger was pulled the bullet could not be called back. The decision would be final but if I hesitated I might be spotted and the opportunity for a clean shot would vanish. I exhaled slowly to expel all the air from my lungs. With my body rock still and steady, I squeezed the trigger. My Remington 270 bolt-action rifle kicked and the bullet left the barrel and traveled toward its mark. By the time I heard the crack of the rifle he toppled over from the impact of the bullet. Instantly all heads turned toward the direction of my rifle fire. There was an explosion of noise from the sound of their automatic weapons and my world went dark.

Epilogue:

The beauty of a dream is that your mind doesn’t require the insertion of a lot of background information. A dream starts and a dream ends and you take it for what it is. Sometimes it is worth nothing more than a passing thought. And other times it lingers with you and won’t let go. In a dream and in awaking life, a personal sacrifice is sometimes required for a greater good. In this dream my personal sacrifice seemed small compared to the sacrifice I brought upon my loved ones . . . never knowing what happened to me. I just went hunting one day and never came home. I just vanished. But I was not the first member of my family to vanish. I wonder what story my great great grandfather will tell us some future day when the past collides with the present. I’m interested to know what happened that day more than a hundred years ago when he went to plow the field and never came home. He just vanished.

Going Home

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

My dream world has been active again. This week I dreamed I was walking across this vast land of ours. I walked over mountains, through valleys and across the grassy plains of the Midwest. I waded across streams and swam rivers. I seemed to be driven by an inner voice moving me eastward. I took in deep breaths of air and was humbled by the scenery of this beautiful country.

I thought how much faster it would be if I could fly or drive but I wasn’t dissatisfied that I was relegated to walking this tremendous distance. I never felt tired. Looking down I was surprised to see that I was barefoot but my feet weren’t sore or bothered in the least. I remember being thankful that it wasn’t wintertime. I could survive the heat much easier than the cold.

I was being mentally pulled eastward toward an unknown destination. I was aware of the fact that I was going to find someone and bring them home. I didn’t know where this journey would take me but I was certain that I would learn many valuable lessons on the way there. Nothing slowed me down. I walked through blazing sun, strong winds and sometimes heavy rain but I continued placing one foot in front of the other. I sang songs and made up stories in my mind to pass the time. I relived memories long buried in the recesses of the deepest chamber of my heart. I was happy. I was content. I was going home.

But I wasn’t going home. I was moving a direction that was taking me far away from home. Why did I feel like I was going home? I was puzzled by this strange sensation. As the foot steps and miles passed under my feet I gradually became aware that home isn’t necessarily a place. It can be a feeling. It can be anywhere you feel safe, loved and appreciated. Who was this person that I was looking for that would make me feel at home once I found them? The one thing I knew for certain was that once we were together we would be so close that we could share a single raindrop. Home would be wherever we were together. I was filled with a love that is difficult for me to describe; as difficult as it is to describe a beautiful sunset to someone who has never seen one.

I realized it was this feeling of love that energized me and gave me a determination to continue my journey. I knew that nothing would stop me, not weather, not mountains, not the heat of day or the cold of night. I would find what was lost to me and I would be home. I was going home.

Making a Difference

By Jerry Mack Grubbs
 
There was no explosion or earthquake that disrupted our lives. It was referred to as a civil unrest. Someone must have thought that the term "civil unrest" was more pleasing to the ear than the truth.  Like when Vietnam was called a conflict instead of a war. Whatever you choose to call it, it was a dangerous time. Gangs were roving the streets, taking what they wanted by force. Law and order was nonexistent in our community. It was dangerous to be out on the street. The only means of transportation was by foot or bicycle since there was no gasoline for vehicles.

With a desire to be together as a family during this turmoil, my son Trevor brought his little family along with my daughter Leslie and her boys to our home. It was a long walk for the little children. The parents were exhausted not so much from the long walk but from the threatening and unsafe circumstances. Leslie's husband Ty had gone to help my son Todd take care of his neighbors. As soon as they were safe within the walls of our home, Trevor left again to help bring Todd's family to our home. I wanted to go with him because I knew there was safety in numbers but he desired for me to stay home incase there was trouble in our neighborhood.

Todd's family lived closer and the walk wasn't as far but it was still a relief when they arrived under Trevor's care. The stories Trevor told of what he had seen on his journey made me realize that the situation in our community was worsening. We had no way of knowing if the situation was as bad in the southern end of the valley where Linda Jean had moved. Since she lived the greatest distance away we had previously mapped out a route that she would start following and we would come meet her if anything of this nature occurred. For fear that she might be out on the road and in danger I now wished I had asked her to just stay put in her own home until we came for her.

As soon as Trevor returned I started preparing to go for Linda Jean and her son William. Once again, Trevor stopped me and suggested that I stay with the family and he would go find them. I gave him the course that Linda Jean would be following and my wife Kaye packed food for him to take. It could require the better part of two days for him to make the trip under the current circumstances. I hated to send him out alone but I knew it was best that I stay with the family until the other men, Todd and Ty arrived.

To our surprise and relief, Trevor was back home with Linda Jean four hours later. Family members gathered around her, hugging her and celebrating her safe arrival. The spirit of that celebration was dampened when we were told that William had not been willing to come. He said that he needed to stay in their home to protect it from looters. Sadness fell over the family and there was a feeling of loss without him there. True, Todd and Ty were not back yet either but we knew they were together and could protect one another. William was all alone.

I went upstairs and began preparing to bring William home if at all possible. There would be plenty of time while on my walk to think of some way to convince him that he should be with us instead of all alone. I loaded my shotgun and put other shells in my jacket pocket.  I didn't want to hurt anyone. I just wanted to be left alone.  I took the food pack that Kaye had prepared for Trevor and started out the door. Linda Jean met me in the foyer and said that she was coming with me and that she had only come without William in order to get help convincing him to come stay with us. In unison, the family pleaded with me to not let her go. She was safe inside the walls of our home and I would be able to travel faster alone which meant that I would reach William sooner. She reluctantly agreed and as I stepped out the door she opened a small plastic case and handed me a baby tooth belonging to William and asked me to not return without him. She already knew that I would not come home without him if he was still alive. This act of entrusting me with his baby tooth was merely a symbol that we both understood. The last sound I heard as I stepped away from the door was the dead bolt being locked behind me. I looked back and there stood my family gathered at the front window waving goodbye.

As I walked, I thought of what had transpired over the last few days; the collapse of law and order and the shutting down of goods being transported across the country that created shortages.  There was panic buying that stripped the shelves in the stores within hours. Selfishness ruled as did the cruelty of people toward one another when such circumstances should have brought out the best in humanity. I wanted to find William and get back home as soon as possible. I knew that until we returned there would be no peace in the hearts of those locked behind the walls of our home. My thoughts turned to Todd and Ty, wondering if they were home safe yet. Suddenly I realized I had forgotten to ask Linda Jean if she had given William the route that he should follow if he decided to come on his own. Doubt began to creep into my mind. What if I passed him and didn't even know it. What if I went all the way to his home and at the same time he was arriving at our home. I felt foolish for not being better prepared. Subconsciously, I reached into my pocket and touched William's baby tooth that Linda Jean had given me just as I left the house. All I could do was my best with what I had and knew at the time. I picked up my pace to find William.

In the distance ahead I could see three men coming toward me. I felt uneasy. Although I had my shotgun and a pistol, I didn't want any trouble nor did I want to hurt anyone. I angled my direction of travel so as not to come face to face with them but as I did so they shifted their direction also and continued to advance toward me. I eased my shotgun out of its holster and held it in a non-threatening position. Then I recognized the three men coming toward me. To my relief it was Todd and Ty. And they had William with them. After they had finished helping Todd's neighbors they immediately took off to get Linda Jean and William. Arriving at their home they found only William there and brought him with them.

I never asked how they convinced William to join them and they never offered an explanation. I was just happy that the four of us were on our way home. We would have enough challenges ahead without worrying about the past. We arrived home long after dark. Most were bedded down but except for the children not many were sleeping. It is difficult to describe the feeling that swept over me as I realized that we were all there, all safe, all accounted for.

As night turned to day we began to stir around the house. At breakfast Todd gave a little speech about how thankful he was that Kaye had been so diligent in preparing for an emergency such as this. We held a family council and it was decided that we couldn't just remain locked behind the walls of our home while others were struggling and less prepared. Unbeknown to me, Kaye, Linda Jean, Julie and Kim had spend the better part of the night doing an inventory of our food supplies. Everything was categorized and a basic menu had been developed.

With gangs roaming the streets and going into the homes and taking food supplies from other people we decided that we should help out in whatever way we could. There were five men in our home. We decided that four men would take food prepared by the family and go out and share it with those in need. Each day one man would stay behind to defend our home. The other four would go out, locate hungry, tired families and share the food with them. They not only shared food but the four would stay and guard over a family while they ate and rested. These men were soon being referred to as the "Peace Warriors." They carried enough fire power to defend a small neighborhood but focused their attention on helping, not hurting. When they extended a hand it was filled with food, not a weapon.

The highlight of each evening was when the Peace Warriors returned home safe once more. After dinner the family would gather and listen to the stories and experiences that they had that day. While our own food supply satisfied our physical hunger, the sharing of our food and the gratitude of those who received it filled our hearts to overflowing. However small it might be, we were making a difference.

I dream every night but most dreams are just bits and pieces of disconnected events. On occasion I have a dream that is so vivid and detailed that I feel compelled to write it down. This dream is not a foretelling of events to come. It is not an omen of impending doom. It is just a dream that both saddened me and enriched me. However, the people of my dream are real. They are precious to me. I hope there is something within this dream that reaches out to you and touches you for good. That's my only purpose in sharing it with you.