Dream: the dark one

I have prayed for a spiritual covering, and to be robed in Christ Jesus. I want to look “from a distance” at this dream. We will see how far the Spirit allows me to go.

The scene for this dream (when I woke up) was a Christian summer camp I went to in my teens. However, before that there was a cabin in the woods. It was not really a cabin: more of a shack. Warped boards, leaning crookedly against each other, lifting up towards a thatched roof creating an impossibly small space. It was a witch’s hut, and there was a witch in it. A boardwalk ran from that hRouse to the main chapel. 

There was something about a mark on my hand: that I too had the gift. This is the part that really felt “off” to me as I tried to write the dream earlier. The earlier portions of this dream have faded, like they are off limits to my conscious mind. Or simply forgotten. 

I do remember that I knew the witch. It may have been my mother, but…no, it was not my mother. But it may have lived with us. That is more correct. And it wanted to live with me, it had said I had that invitation. Tried to say it was my birthright. The invitantion was made years ago. This is correct. Maybe while I was at camp of the woods. 

But as I think of this aspect, I realize that none of that touched me. The good, the bad. It was not mine. It was something I was watching. That is correct. 

What was truly remarkable about the dream — and why it wasn’t instantly horrifying — was the beauty of the music. There was really, really beautiful music. I recognized it: it was “Home” by Kim Walker-Smith and Skyler Smith. I had liked this album recently. While in Winnipeg (avoiding my parents) I had discovered this album. I thought it had a really nice, genuine worship feel to it. At any rate, this beautiful worship music was playing. But then…another noise would come in. Was it a noise? Or a presence? It was dark, and red, and sounded like steel shards grinding on one another, and made my stomach tense up. It was very evil. The good music would play, and the bad. What was remarkable was how they could function side-by-side. It was truly a striking contrast. It was like going from the most extreme opposites, one after another. Or maybe at the same time? Like a subway, passing lights on the wall. Dark, light, dark, light. So fast it was almost simultaneous. Or like white oil-based paint floating on black water-based paints. The contrast was so stark. The Christian music was very good, and genuinely blessed. The Holy Spirit was in it: it was good, and holy. But the evil was so bad.

I was not involved in this, but I was watching it. As I did, the evil became more strong. That leads to the climax of the dream, where I woke up. I was in the chapel when I saw “splat” (more like “thud”) someone hit the projector screen from behind. There was just a flash of a face, and a wet thudding of blood. Then it was gone. Then another. And another. It was like I was watching a dash-cam of a car with a glass front, driving madly through traffic. Running over one person, than another. 

It began to speed up and intensify, until the thuds became like the drumming of music.

I tried to hide my face from the carnage: it was too much. That was when I woke up.

***

As I look at this now, it does not cause me fear, although I can tell that there is evil here. God is my protector, and the Spirit of Jesus is my very strong protector.

As I was thinking about this dream, the next day, I felt like my subconscious (or maybe my spirit) gave this brief explanation… “holiness…mixed with sorcery.” That felt very right in explaining this dream.

I thought of a student from Haiti. He said he was trying to find a church, and that he had certain criteria: “because if a pastor starts taking bribes, one thing leads to another, and the next thing you know, there is sorcery in the church.” It was a strange thing to say, and hearing it in French made the word “sorcery” (or maybe it was “occult”) really stand out. But I can definitely see that. In churches that only encourage spiritual manifestations, and are not practicing a gift of discernment…could they not invite unclean spirits? (God, I want the cleanness of your Spirit to wash over me now…thank you!!) And if there is sin in the leadership, is that not an open door? 

And there was a thought. I felt, this feels familiar. I could not put my finger on it. But it seemed like something I knew. It was like the smell of a dear friend of my mothers, who was over all of the time when I was six. I knew this thing, but could not place it. 

A word came, “a little bit of this, a little bit of that…and you get results!” A cackling laugh. 

Packed pews, money. I can give you so much money. And praise, and adoring fans. I can give you all of that. 

“And how can we argue with results?” 

…and then I can see the results. Over and over. The souls that were steam-rolled over by this wickedness.

So where was the wickedness? Were my parents secretly practicing sorcery in the backyard? 

I doubt it very much. They barely believed in the Holy Spirit, never mind demons.

But what does Scriptures say? 

26BE ANGRY, AND yet DO NOT SIN; do not let the sun go down on your anger, 27and do not give the devil an opportunity. (Eph. 4:26-27) How many opportunities did Satan have? Dad is such an angry man!

And mom as well….how long has she held onto anger?

I remember driving home from the funeral of her mother. It had been a month-long ordeal. I had put my teenage life on hold to…(I realize now how dysfunctional this was)…to help my mom, but also to keep her, and help to keep the extended family together, which included (but was not limited to) babysitting my cousin (who became my sister, then was disowned), going to find  my uncle when he was drunk/high in downtown, convincing a drunk uncle to stay, getting caught in feuds over stuff, with one cousin trying to snatch everything, parents trying to keep the peace, etc. etc., 

ANYWAYS (may be more to deal with here later) I felt very close to my mom during this time. On the drive home, it was dark, and I felt like it was a good time to broach a sensitive subject. It was the time. The only time: I asked her if she would now be willing to forgive her mother. I do not think that I pressured her in any way, I asked in a good way. But she said that she was not ready. I pushed a bit then, about the importance of it, and she shut down. “I just don’t want to talk about this right now.” 

And that was that. I have known in my spirit that she has never forgiven, and never will forgive her mother. And what does Scriptures say of unforgiveness? 

That those who do not forgive will be delivered “to the torutures/jailers” until they repay. (May. 18:34) So what does that look like? Often, counsellors use this verse to speak of physical problems (indigestion, aches, pains, etc.) caused by prolonged bitterness. She certainly has her fair share of those. But is there more? Is this bitterness passed on, and the “torturers” along with it?

And I think of my grandmother. A hard, mean woman. Faithfully in church every sunday. 

Giving us money to buy shoes, then criticizing the way we children walk “because you’re wearing out those shoes I bought you!” Taking in a mentally impaired ethnic boy, but treating him (let’s be honest) like a slave, whom she brutally insulted and bossed around her whole life. I can still see him bowing his head, apologizing, muttering, and doing her bidding. “Sorry mum, sorry mum, I’ll do it right away, mum…” 

And I think of her sitting in her rocking chair, knitting. This is like an emblematic memory for me. Sitting there knitting, and I was there too, maybe reading. After some silence she began talking in a muttering, but conversational tone. “Have you heard about ____?” I hadn’t, and said as much. “Oh. Well, they’re in real trouble now. Divorced. Bad things. Have you heard about ______?” I hadn’t heard about them either, being from out of town. “They are also in trouble….” On and on she went — outright gossiping (in a disturbing, monotone voice) about a long list of people I did not know. I think that I got up and left after a while. Gossip in small doses seems “tasty” as the proverb goes. It “goes down like a juicy marcel” (Prov. 18:8) before one even realizes they ate it. But pure, untrammelled, unadulterated gossip, about people I didn’t even know, was revolting. And I knew it was wrong. Even as a young teen, I knew. I think I got up and left. Just like so many people got up and left her.

“Your grandmother sure was a saint.” A traveling pastor told me. I was surprised, and said so. “Oh yes! There used to be so many foster children in that home! Why there must be hundreds of ethnic children who went through those doors!” Hundreds? How could one woman care for so many? “She sold Avon.” She sold Avon? Or she lived off of fostering? And Avon got her out of the house?

Behind her back, my mother was abused first by her father, then repeatedly by her brother and then by others in that home. 

But she was a saint, faithfully in church every sunday. In church on Sunday, that is, to tell her grandson on Monday all of the gossip. 

“A little bit of this, a little bit of that.” So much results. *splat, splat, splat* so much…devastation 

***

I am tempted to say that what I am talking about here is a matter of sin, or of poor judgment. But there is more. I feel it, there is more. There is a spiritual anointing on this. “A little bit of this, a little bit of that…holiness, mixed with sorcery.” (a wicked laugh) Was my grandmother a sorcerer? My mother?

I do not know, I cannot ask them. I can only relate things that I experienced, and gradually renounced in my childhood.

As I begin to wander down this path, I have an image in my mind. It is also from Camp. I was walking along the beach at twilight. On one side, a beautiful sunset. On the other, the woods. By now, pitch black and somewhat frightening. I realized that the direction that I looked greatly affected how I felt: look to the sunset, feel peace/joy. Look to the forest, feel dread and fear. 

I feel like something inside of me is saying, “You chose the light.” That is true. But it was a choice I made, and the darkness tried to impose itself for a time.

I had an experience which seemed very real (but may have been a dream). I was around 3-4 years old. My dad was tucking us into bed. Three beds in a row, he was working his way down the beds towards me. I looked at the doorway, and a small man (about the size and shape of a garden gnome, but dressed in white) peeked in. he looked at me, just as normal as any other person would. But he made me scared inside, so I hid under the blankets. I knew he ran to my bed, because I felt a weight run up onto the blankets, and between my legs, like a cat. I don’t remember anything more after that. 

[Probably unrelated…I had another dream I remember from this time. I was dreaming something about an ocean-front area, with a beautiful lighthouse, which was also a windmill. It was white, with red trim. There were flower-boxes, and cute lattice doors/windows. Suddenly there was a mewing sound. So much mewing! Then I suddenly realized that I had wet the bed and felt so ashamed and woke up. Between my legs was the cat, who chose that place to have her kittens. It ended up being a special memory, although I think I apologized for the blood on my bed. I remember my mom saying to my aunt, “the cat knew it was a safe place to have her babies.” She was right — I was a safe place. These memories are connected in my mind...probably because they are from the same time, and no other reason]

Sometime later, I had such debilitating night terrors. I would have them over and over. I thought they were from God, to make me stronger. (Which makes sense, actually, that I would think that, from things I have read recently, because children always assume that things are there either because of their sin, or for their good. They have a very hard time seeing evil in parents or authority figures, which makes abuse do difficult to heal from) I finally told god that I was not strong enough, and asked Him to take them away until I was five. On the night of my fifth birthday, I had another terrible night terror. I would feel like I was fully awake, but a dark presence was standing over me. A terrifying, terrifying presence. Or else I would be unable to speak, or breathe, with a  terrible weight on my chest. 

[Possibly unrelated: In one dream that I still remember, there was a great lion sitting casually on my chest. Weapons were all around me. But as I reached for them, one by one, they would disappear. I reached for the spear, the sword, the knife…but left the gun. I did not touch the best weapon, because I was afraid that it would disappear as well. But this was a dream, not a night terror. The only similarity was the crushing WEIGHT on my chest]

At any rate, this pattern repeated once or twice. Maybe three times, I cannot remember. The thing with dreams is that you don’t think of them when you are awake: only when you are partially asleep. When in that state, they all come rolling back to you, and you can see many of them, as though they all exist int he same parallel universe, where time travels at a different rate.

Finally, I prayed for God just to take them away. Or maybe to take them away until I was an adult, I can’t remember. At any rate, they left and I was very grateful: this experience also underscored the power of prayer to me, in a way that I have never forgotten. At a very young age (maybe 6) I had seen God work in a very tangible way.

For unknown reasons, magic in movies really stood out to me. I remember the movie “Bedknobs and broomsticks,” where a nanny is really a witch, and uses her powers to take magical adventures, and eventually to fight off the Nazis. Also, I remember Matilda, and I remember Star Wars. I remember trying to make things fly with my mind. I prayed earnestly for this power. I rarely had “flying” dreams, but often had dreams about making things move.

In about grade eight, I thought I was developing the power to read people’s minds. Also, I could “see” hidden objects. This applied to many things: but the representative memory that my mind has kept is playing chess at the Christian school. We used to play almost every lunch break, and it was customary for one person to hold a piece (black and white) in each hand behind their back, and allow the other person to choose. I would casually say, “I choose white,” and point to the hand with white. I just knew. I don’t know how. It felt like an intuition, but I knew it was right. 

After a while, it went away. I thought that God was punishing me for being too proud. I prayed to have it back, but eventually forgot about it.

About this time, I also tried to “speak” to people by sending my thoughts very powerfully out into a starry sky. I was praying while I did so. I think I may have told God, “If this is wrong, just ignore it.” I think I was trying to tell the girl I had a crush on how I felt. 

In high school, I had such crushing anxiety about writing papers, or doing anything “big” at school. (Which actually makes sense, considering the parenting by narcissism that I received) I would write something, then instantly harshly criticize myself and delete it. This would repeat over and over, until I would waste hours at the computer. Then I would criticize myself for doing nothing, and the intensity would increase. Sometimes, I would look at pornography to receive the intense pressure: then I would feel very much worse. I remember one particular time with a project I was working on for over a month. It was the day before my presentation and I had nothing on paper. Nothing! I left my home and wandered through the golf course. I climbed a tree. Just numb. It was drizzling rain, in spring. It was very cold, but I didn’t move. I think I almost lost my mind that day. Instead, I decided to drop the class. But then later, the same thing was happening again: for an english class, I was trying to study, but could not. Also, I had read a scene from a zombie movie, which vividly portrayed a man turning into a flesh-eating zombie. A spirit of filth, combined with self-loathing was all over me. 

It was at that time that I went down to my room, got on my knees, and prayed so earnestly for deliverance. I felt like God told me, “…listen to what they are saying…” One by one, I wrote down all of the negative voices in my mind. Then one by one, I wrote down Scritural answers to the lies. I had such a clear image of the shield of faith. With a spiritual effort that felt so incredibly hard, I sat down at the computer and began to write. The voices came, and were so strong. I fought them off, and gradually they got less.

When I became an adult, in Bible school, I had terrifying nightmares again. I don’t remember when they started. One morning I woke up, and realized that I had been having these recurring dreams for a very, very long time. It would be like this: I would be laying in bed, and something would “bump” the edge of the bed. It would feel like I was on a raft, and someone just “bumped” a corner with his foot. Then another bump. And another. Suddenly, it would escalate with all the corners being bumped rapidly in a chaotic manner. I would fight to wake myself up. If I could not in time, I would start to feel the bat-wings brushing against me, and the bumping would get more energetic and intense. I would awake in a cold sweat, with my body tense, and my heart pounding so hard it physically hurt my chest.

I talked to my mentor about it, and he pressed me to ask if I had ever given ground to the Devil in anything. I thought of the times trying to make things move with my mind, and he encouraged me to repent of that. I repented of that and anything else I could think of, including trying to see invisible things, and speaking telepathically. At that point, my dreams went away.

That being said, I do continue to have spiritual dreams. 

I have a somewhat recurring dream of being in God’s presence in such a powerful, uplifting way that it feels like I must be in Heaven. My heart swells up in worship, in ways that almost never happen in waking worship. Or I see myself preaching, and so many hear the news, and are changed. It’s just bathed in glory and light. I wake up feeling God so sweetly.

Or other times, I wrestle with demons. Really, I think that is what I do. There are times that I feel dark presences on me. Not like when I was a child: I no longer cower. I fight them now. I do not welcome them, and will not say that I am “good” at it. It is terrible, awful experiences. One year, before starting our campus ministry, I felt an evil presence wrestling with me in bed. I fought him in Jesus name, and pulled myself out of sleep. In the morning, and for the rest of the day, the muscles on my spine were sore from the exertion. I still sometimes feel the pressure, the evil, the darkness in my dreams. But I fight it. As mentioned at the beginning: I no longer feel that these things have power over me. They are not a part of me: I don’t think that they ever were. If I welcomed them as a child/teen (and I did give ground at times) I did so unknowingly. And now, it can safely be said, “that is not my spirit,” and “depart from me, I never knew you,” and “oh Father, give me, please, so much more of your Spirit!” And there is no confusion, or fear of mixing them. I know the taste of the bitter, and of the sweet.

But do my parents? Have they made that divide? Have they “come out from them,” and made themselves “holy”? Or are they still trying to put the holy beside the wicked? “A little bit of this, and a little bit of that…” “Holiness…mixed with sorcery.” “I can give you results!” 

…but what are the consequences?

Consequences to others. But also, consequences to myself.  How much pain has that witch — that family spirit of evil — caused to myself, to my inner child, over the years? 

No more. She is not welcome here. Not welcome at all.

And if I will have no relationship to my mother to protect myself from that evil, so be it. 

Depart from me, I never knew you.

***

You are so strong! So strong, and so good, my Father! I love you!

****

I think that witch may have been the same one, from a previous dream. The one that I killed (but not really) when I stopped worrying about how my decisions would affect my mom’s health/hypochondria. Yes, it may have been the same spirit. It “feels” the same.

Wash me off, Father. I want only your spirit in my mind. I love you.