I Dreampt My Building Collapsed

My dream-building collapsed last night. I have no idea how long I’ve been dreaming about this place, but it appears in various forms. One common element is the scary old elevator that lifts me to the roof. Another is the seemingly endless maze of hallways and rooms on each floor. Last night’s building was a skyscraper, old and full of character. And danger. Like a disembodied spirit, I enjoy complete freedom of perspective, able to view it from the sidewalk, the top, within its hallways or from a far distance in subsequent moments. Though the elevator scares me, somehow I always wind up in its wall-less car as it trudges slowly up the stark, concrete shaft, floor after dreary floor passing downward. Eventually, I arrive at the top floor or roof, walk to the edge and look over, despite my fear of heights and vast spaces. My dream-building collapsed for no apparent reason, and in unique style. Unlike the World Trade Center towers, disintegrating from the top downward, or old buildings, demolished from the bottom by explosives carefully placed to destroy their structural integrity and provide space for progress, my dream-building suffered uniform trauma. I was part of the rescue effort. An unspecified “we” climbed into the hapless tangle of concrete, steel and human wreckage, searching for survivors and those not so fortunate. We found them individually and in populous pockets, existing on whatever they happened to scrounge from their surroundings. One rich woman refused to submit to her less-than dignified state, controlling everyone and everything within her pathetic sphere of influence. Women hugging babies in their protective arms cried for help. Some men heroically ran around trying to save people while others exploited their neighbors in tribulation. I found some strange ammunition left by a group, whether terrorists or militia, I don’t know, but their unseen presence threw an additional pall over the devastation. One young man scavenged what gospel tracts he could find among his scattered belongings and set out to preach to the dying. The wreckage remained stable for some time, then began to shift and compact. Gradually it seemed to fall into its basement, like a vast elevator descending into a hole. I helped some to jump to safety as their space passed the sidewalk’s raw edge, but a few other guys tried just as hard to inhibit the jump to safety. Once I was on the sidewalk, I watched the roof pass downward into the hole, then looked up to find all the other buildings, near and far, were suffering the same sort of destruction mine had. What good is a dream if has no application to reality? The building in all its manifestations might be my immediate world, since I don’t see it as representing me personally. The old elevator struggling to ascend past individual floors to the roof might represent my struggle to ascend past meaningless occupations to my highest aspiration. Currently, I dream of supporting my family and ministering to my world by writing professionally. When I reach the roof and look over the edge at the dizzying vista, I display my ambivalence about reaching the top at all. At once, I covet success and fear it. I see my world crumbling, and I hope to rescue its occupants by climbing in with God and working to save them. But the dream shows me more as God’s passive “sidekick” than a useful member of the rescue team, caring on the emotional level if not actively. Why are my dreams so critical of myself? They present questions, but no answers. They disquiet me, but provide no resolution. Father, I trust Your faithfulness in directing my steps and my circumstances, and I know you love me enough to make everything in my life work to my ultimate good. Yet, I fear the future rather than anticipating it as I would if I truly trusted you. As the concerned father said to Jesus, “I do believe [or, I do have faith]! Lord, be helping my unbelief [or, my weak faith]!” (Mar 9:24 Analytical-Literal Translation)