I keep saying to myself, it’s that time again.
But I pull myself up short and make myself repeat it without the “again;” just, it’s that time.
I’m trying hard to leave out the again.
Because I keep getting the vision, It is serious now.
Not that any period of visions has not been serious. At least not for me. They are always serious. Sometimes much too serious.
But I feel like I understand this reference to serious. Even though I am one-hundred percent wrong about thinking I understand what God is saying at the beginning of any time of vision, this time (yes, this time, as opposed to all those other times), I think I understand.
To be honest, for once, I don’t want to understand.
I don’t want to know.
I don’t want it to be that time.
I should have seen or felt it coming. There it was, the signs. The change in sleep habits: from going to sleep and waking up, like a regular person, to sleeping as though I am a frog trying to get across a busy road – sleep, awake, sleep, awake – like hops that don’t know their own rhythm.
And the pressure in my heart, my soul, that pushing out of love for everything. The expansiveness in my awareness of the world and how it works. In spite of itself. Its stumbling and mumbling. All its wrong moves.
And then there comes the time when visions are even in my dreams.
I hate that most of all things in life.
I want my dreams to be just there, meaningless, or meaningful, depending on what they want to be. But my own. Belonging just to me. So that I can consider them if, or when, I want to.
Not be shaken awake by visions. Panicked. Wanting to cry or moan, or pull the pillow over my head until the images go away.
I remember the sleep vision just before September 11. And the sweat. And the terror. The Islamic soul. Its strength. Its anger. Its crying out to harm.
I may have been the only person on September 12 to think, That wasn’t as bad as I thought it was going to be.
And even that vision was not labeled, serious.
I think I know what is going on.
It’s the time, I think, for that time that God refers to as, The Time of Works and Wonders.
Not, The Apocalypse. Not, The End of Time. Not, The Final Judgment.
I don’t think any of us would ever, ever, ever think to define what God considers to be works and wonders to ever be so.
Noah, he teaches. He went through a period of works and wonders.
What would Noah have called it, I wonder? What did Noah think when he looked down at the Earth after the storm and realized that it was all up to him. Life was all up to him.
Not works and wonders I don’t imagine. More like, wow. Or perhaps, why me?
Right before I left for India there was the vision, the last-minute instruction, Don’t forget to laugh. Or you will die.
And that was not considered serious.
The visions that, for a long time now, have been linked to this time of works and wonders show me a rain that doesn’t end. That covers the Earth. That keeps the sky dark.
And then there are the instructions for me, the instructions about prayer, about responding to the rain. About gathering people together to pray to end the rain.
It always seemed a bit, well, too much. A big vision that had no real home on Earth, really. A rain that doesn’t end.
On Earth rains end.
And then I grew older. And older. And older.
And I started to listen to the rain in a way that I never listened to the rain before. I always listen to rain. One of my favorite things as a child was to sit by the deep windowsills and listen to the rain, to feel the invisible dust on the sill disturbed, tickling my nose. The hush of the bird song, and the barking dogs. A time out of the busy world, except for the very occasional sound of a splashing, passing car.
But now, I listen to the rain, and after my enjoyment, my contentment that it always brings, when I hear the drops fade back into the woods, into the leaves, I give a prayer of thanks.
Thank you for letting the rain end.
It began to occur to me that God could let the rain not end. To go on and on until our world took notice.
It would take a lot to get our world to take notice, I think.
Most of my life, I figured that people would figure things out on their own. That it was best for people to work things out on their own. That they shouldn’t let the churches turn themselves inside out just out of boredom.
But people never listened to my silence. They never heard the warnings in my prayers.
So now I wonder what it means, what does a rain that does not end mean?
Could it mean the actual rain? After all, our planet is in the process of changing her very nature.
Or could it be a rain of bombs?
Or perhaps it just refers to an endless rain of tears that even now appears to be chocking people around the world.
For the first time in my life I want to leave the shadows that I like to live in. I want to climb the highest mountain. I want to don a cape of prophesy.
I want to raise my arms to the sky, and make everyone listen.
I want to say, REPENT!
But don’t forget to laugh.
Or you’ll die.