A thief in the house?

I dreamed last night:

It’s dark and late.

I’m alone, going to bed in my brother’s old room in the basement, back in the house I grew up in, the house where my parents still live.

But suddenly I am not alone.
I see shadows; I hear noises.

Is there a thief in the house?

I try to scream for help, but no sound comes.

Or so I think. Jeff hears the screams; he wakes me up. 

It’s important that I write this down today, not Tuesday or Wednesday. On those days, we will hear if my father’s biopsy is cancer. Or not.

Is somebody trying to break into our house?

Yes. Somebody always is. Sin is slinking around our door.
Today. Every day.

This somebody wants to steal our stuff. So he can steal our peace. And our hope. Our trust in God.

If he takes my daddy’s body, he thinks he also steals my mother’s security. And my family’s unity.

And his ultimate goal—my very faith.

He’s lurking around. I see him poorly disguised as death. As fear. Alzheimer’s. Lung Cancer. Disbelief.

And sometimes, he looks an awful lot like…me. That’s the scariest disguise of all.
Me—wary of what’s next.
Me—tempted by isolation.
Me—overwhelmed by minor things.

Right before I wake from my dream, I see the intruder slip out a window and pack up his loot, my stuff, in his van across the street. We make eye contact.

I’m awake.

Lord,
I’ve made eye contact with the enemy. Even if he takes my circumstances, he can’t have my soul.

You own the house and everybody in it. Nobody snatches me out of your hand (John 10:29). I rest safely tonight in your arms.

Sweet dreams.

* * *

But lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven,
where neither moth nor rust destroys
and where thieves do not break in and steal.
For where your treasure is,
there your heart will be also.
Matthew 6:20-21