They meet together, an oft maligned, persecuted sect. Each carries a dish as they enter the home. Stouthearted men greet each other the kiss and embrace of one who has received back a loved one from a far country. Tears freely flow as a brother pours out his difficulties and they break bread together at the table. There are no masks, no uncomfortable small talk, but true sons of heaven and earth deeply partaking of the bread and the wine and the kingdom and the fellowship of the saints. Each ministers and is ministered to. A child is baptized. A woman with a deformed hand is healed. They share their trials and tears and carry each other’s burdens, if only for a moment.
In the dream, as we are leaving this sweet fellowship, one pulls me close for a hug. I don’t pull away after 2.3 seconds (I am SO not a hugger), but let the brother speak a blessing and benediction over me before I leave. Unlike real life, I don’t run away, afraid of the vulnerability that sort of intimacy demands.
I visited with the sons of heaven as I slept. I saw a picture of the church as it once was and forever will be, and it was beautiful and frightening, and good