Bitter Cup

I have always loved stories. When my children were small, I would read to them every night and sometime it turned into me making up stories for them which they seemed to love. With every story I made up, it became, “Tell us another story, mommy.”

This drained my creative juices on many occasions and I would often have to quit. Some nights I would retell fairy tales and do voices for the different characters and sometimes change to the stories around to different variations. I had just as much fun doing it as it was for them to hear me do them.

Maybe that is why I have so many dreams that answers questions to things going on in my life. A lot of times I have dreams that I do not fully understand the meaning of them when I first wake up. Sometimes I have to be more awake before the full context of their meaning is unfolded for my understanding.

I love them regardless and how they help me put things into perspective to better understand the perplexities I am dealing with. Now I will share another dream here.

I am at a house, not my house. It almost feels like a clubhouse that people might gather for a party. My children and I are there. On a table are several large bottles of poison. The bottles are big and brown like the old cartoon jugs that would have the XXX painted on them.

Each person including myself were going to drink our own bottle. I knew mine would be the last I would drink. I didn’t want my kids to drink any but they were all determined to have their share. Everyone was talking loudly above the other and no one was listening. Each person was determined to be heard and even I though I wanted to caution them not to drink theirs, no one could hear me.

I quickly drank mine and everyone stopped and looked at me, then they quickly drank theirs down. Realizing what they had just done they all got quiet. No one spoke but I could tell they were sorry but would not admit it to each other. No one wanted to die but it was too late, now the only thing that anyone could do was wait. Everyone sat quietly and the silence was just as deafening as the noise had been.

Finally Curtis spoke up and turned to me and with exasperation asked me, “Mom how can you believe in the things you do and why do you want to die?” I stayed silent. Then Curtis turned to James and said, “I wish you’d say something.” James wouldn’t speak, he just turned his head in sorrow. Then I woke up.

This dream came from deep in my psyche. Before going to sleep last night, I was lying in bed thinking about my children and how this whole pandemic has caused such a rift in the family and worrying about how and if I could fix it. So I laid in my bed going over the dream and the meaning became more evident.

The bottles of poison were bottles of intolerance that we were all drinking. It was poisoning us as a family. While everyone is talking and reacting above the other, no one is listening and won’t listen until it has succeeded in destroying us all, but by then it will be too late. We had drunk from our own bitter cups.

It hasn’t helped me to find my answer only to put things in a different perspective. I have so much gratitude to a Heavenly Father that speaks to me in such a way, that I will listen.

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