I recall the dream, as if it is happening now…
He is sitting in His chambers. His chambers are walled by alternating panels of gold and glass, 30 or 40 feet high, it seems. Embedded into the walls are earth-cut chunks of rubies, emeralds, onyx, sapphires. Their transparent brilliance reflects rays of soft light emanating from Him.
The floor is a patchwork of wood from every tree in existence, it seems. It is a dizzying array of colors, grain, roughness and smoothness that changes from wood panel to wood panel.
I cannot see Him. There are many people around Him. They surround Him like children surrounding the new boy. The people are dressed like princes and princess. Long flowing dresses, glittered necklaces, coiffed hair, tailored suits, slicked curls, clean faces, click-clacking heels.
They speak in many dialects to Him. They laugh and giggle when He says something back. They gush over Him. They goo over Him. They pat His shoulders. Some sit on the floor before Him and lay their heads on His lap. They are immensely happy people. They look rich and wealthy and perfect.
I smell food. Delicious, savory, tasty smells. I close my eyes as I sniff the air. The scents have seeped out of a kitchen somewhere in the back. They envelope me with the nostalgia of home, of rice and beans, of baked chicken, of endless dishes of fried plantains.
There are waiters busying about. They are carrying the food on large trays. They serve the people, then leave, only to return with more food. They carry flasks of liquids: Wine, clear water, fresh juice, medicinal drinks.
They do not see me. No one does, it seems. I realize that I am a servant. I am a barefoot dark homely girl standing in the corner. I am like a brown mouse. My hair has been unloved for years. My skin ashen. My clothes opaque.
I suddenly feel my inadequacy. I suddenly feel my smallness, my unworthiness to join in the throng around Him.
I must be convinced of this miserable state because I do not call out. I do not say anything. I seem resigned to live my unknown life in the shadows. My tongue is silent as I watch the scene before me.
But then something happens. The throng breaks away from Him because He is standing up. And He steps down from His throne and walks in my direction. He walks towards me, it seems. The light around Him reveal His features to me.
He is handsome in a deep, warm way. His eyes are brown seas with small swimming specks of green and blue and gray and hazel that softly smile at me. His lips are full and regular. His face is middle-aged with tiny wrinkles at the crease of his eyes.
He is tall. And He wears a simple robe that is obviously expensive, it seems. The thread does not look like anything I have seen in life. It is shiny, but not too shiny. It is matte, but not too dull. It moves, but it is not too light. It hangs on Him perfectly.
He keeps walking on the strange wooden floor. He keeps His eyes on me, it seems. I want to believe that He is looking at someone behind me, someone above me or to my left or right. I do not want Him to look at me – but then I do.
And finally, He stops in front of me. The throng has slowly followed Him. They are perplexed and curious at His sudden behavior.
One of them, a woman, asks Him, “which one of us are You going to choose?”
He reaches His hand out to me, gesturing for me to take it. His sweet eyes encourage me. They tell me that everything will be okay. My little hand trembles a bit. I awkwardly put my hand into His.
Then He says, “this one.”
©Michelle St. Claire. All rights reserved.