I had my first Catholic dream last night. It’s been a while since I remember having a dream after waking up at all, actually. But I’ve definitely never had a dream that I could label as “Catholic” before. At least not since I entered the Church at the Easter Vigil four years ago. That is, until the dream I dreamt last night.
Driving around in the car yesterday, after taking kids to sports fields, mass, and a dinner to celebrate victories and such, my oldest son mentioned something he had learned about dreams, deep sleep, and the brain. My daughter chimed in that she has dreams all the time, which she remembers vividly.
I remember thinking at the time, as I was driving and just listening, “Heh. I can’t remember the last time I remember having a dream after waking up.” But dream last night, I did.
Perhaps it was the Italian restaurant, the glass of white zinfindel, or the eggplant parmesan, the palenta, pheasant, lasagna, and the blue marlin (good, but chewy). Perhaps it was the tiramisu or something else I ate as we celebrated victories and feasted that opened the door to dreaming.
Whatever the reason, though, I had a dream I remember last night and it was vivid. I was at the Vatican for some reason, a conference or something. I have no idea why, really. But in the dream, I just knew where the setting was: The Eternal City.
Anyway, in this place, maybe a grand cathedral, or a coliseum with lots and lots of people, religious folks, and laypeople, I somehow wound up sitting in a row with Pope Benedict XVI at one point.
We chatted, and I noticed that he was laid back, spoke really good English with a mild German accent, and he was a joy to be around. We got up for some reason, and walked around a bit and I noticed something else. He was short. Really short. Shorter than I expected.
And then I was directed to another spot in the auditorium/ stadium, and others got a chance to meet, chat and sit next to Il Papa too. And I was happy for them.
Then I woke up, feeling refreshed.