Major Lesson Learned The Hard Way by Deb Moken

 1994 — It’s taken me 32 years to commit this story to print. I’m not sure why. Maybe it has too many moving parts, takes too much time to type out, or is simply too sacred a memory. Or maybe it shines too bright a light on a dark chapter of my journey. But today, as I sat in church listening to a really fine, comprehensive message on the value and challenges of forgiveness, I figured today’s the day. It’s time. Here goes.

The story begins in 1993. A friend of a friend wanted a perm and asked if I’d barter the service for a piece of carpet. We had recently bought a house with half an unfinished lower level. We’d started turning the southwest corner into a home salon and planned to finish the remaining northwest quarter, which Chris was using as a bedroom. Carpet would be great—getting him one step closer to a legit bedroom.

Long story short, as she was getting into her car to leave, she noticed scratch marks on all four doors, fenders, and quarter panels of her beautiful black car. Scratches that were obviously put there by a little person just learning to form their letters. Apparently, her black car reminded a kindergarten-ish child of a classroom chalkboard. There was a rock tucked into the right-hand corner of the rear license plate well.

She was livid. I was nauseous.

I offered to pay her insurance deductible since, we assumed, the crime was committed in my driveway, on my property. She agreed. I called Mike and our credit union loan officer (who happened to be my mom).

Well, sometime between the deductible agreement and collecting three repair estimates, she changed her mind. She decided she didn’t want to file an insurance claim—which might raise her premium—and instead insisted we were responsible for the entire repair bill, upwards of nearly $10,000. Our mortgage for the  4-bedroom, 2-bath, 2-car attached house was $53,000! We refused, and she threatened to sue.

She also began a campaign to make my life miserable. She would call demanding payment and threaten to have my license taken away. The next call would be a threat to report me to the state housing program that had approved our mortgage, claiming I couldn’t use the home for business purposes.

After a couple months of receiving these threats every week or so, I decided to make two phone calls: one to the state cosmetology commission and the other to the state’s mortgage assistance program. In less than ten minutes, I had authoritative, definitive answers. Her threats were toothless.

The relief, though substantial, was short-lived.

She started court proceedings.

I was getting sued. Court was set for February 14, 1994.

I wrote a letter to the court explaining my side, offering to pay the deductible. I didn’t mention her threats or the fact that she was demanding we pay the entire repair and repaint bill. I figured since that was what she was petitioning the court for, the judge would already know.

I finished my statement, and then she got up to speak.

And she LIED. Bald-faced lied—in court! She claimed our girls were responsible and insisted I had refused to pay the deductible, which was (cough. cough) all she was asking for. WHAT?! All this mess for what I’d offered all along—plus implicating our kids?!

Oh boy howdy, was I hot. But her nose didn’t grow, and her pants didn’t burst into flames, so there was no way for the honorable judge to ascertain the depths of her deceit.

A couple of weeks later, a certified letter arrived with the ruling. I was found guilty and ordered to pay the $1,000 deductible. Five months this had dragged out, and in the end I gave her exactly what I’d originally offered—but now I was saddled with an unwarranted, unsubstantiated designation: GUILTY.

Why didn’t they use a word like responsible? That’s an easier pill to swallow than guilty. Guilty—me and my girls. It didn’t sit well. The injustice. The deception. The court’s declaration.

I sent off the check, hoping that would put an end to the angst.

Nope.

Things stewed in me for another month or so, and then the vivid dreams started.

It was a Saturday night. The dream is as clear in my mind tonight as it was 32 years ago.

My friend Myrna (wearing her multi-pastel-colored wind suit) and I walked through a set of double doors. I was shocked, super angry, crying, and inconsolable, saying, “I can’t believe he left me!”

She said, “Being a single mom is hard, yes—but lots of women have done it. I’ve done it. You can do it too.”

I looked up, and there were all of Mike’s friends standing—not in a circle, but in a square. In my dream, I was baffled by this, because people don’t stand around visiting in right-angles.

End of dream.

Two days later—Monday—the Spirit of God interrupted my day off, insisting I ask her to forgive me.

ARE YOU KIDDING ME?! You want me to ask that woman—who lied, threatened, and made my life hell for nearly six months—to forgive ME?! That’s out of the question. I did nothing wrong. My girls and I had been slandered and falsely accused.

I argued my case the entire day. God was relentless, and He reminded me of the terrible words I had spoken about her.

Finally, I simply wrote:
“Please forgive me.
Deb.”

I slapped a stamp on it and shoved it into the outgoing mailbox slot. Unretrievable.

Thursday—just as I told God she would—she called. Gloating and rubbing my nose in the judge’s decision.

That night, dream #2.

I was in my tiny salon, trying to do someone’s hair, and she’s there—in the way. Blocking my every turn.

Then she said, “Deb, I have one thing I need to say to you, and then I’ll be out of your life forever.”

“WHAT?” I snarled, turning to face her.

She put her hands on my face, kissed my cheek, and said, “Thank you.”

Then, poof, she disappeared before my eyes.

End of dream.

Saturday real life. Not a dream: Mike, Chris, and Jen went to play mini-golf. I stayed home with Rach—not sure why; one of us must not have been feeling well. She was asleep when the phone rang.

A person I didn’t know told me there had been an accident. My kids were safe and with her, and EMT workers were with Mike.

“How’s Mike?!” I kept asking.

Her only response was, “Your kids are fine.”

Since this is already two pages longer than I normally write, let’s skip ahead.

Mike had blacked out—cause unknown—while driving on Highway 44. His body convulsed, stiffened, and mashed the accelerator to the floor of our full-size conversion van. Jen was lying on the back bench seat; Chris was riding shotgun, buckled in.

Mike’s right hand grabbed his left arm. His left hand clamped the wheel and jerked it into the oncoming traffic lane. Chris fought to keep the van in the right lane for nearly a mile. Then it went into the ditch, ramped up a field approach, flipped end over end, and came to a stop over an irrigation ditch, driver’s side down.

Jen felt hands holding her against the seat. Completely unharmed. Chris was held in place by his seatbelt, and as I write this, I don’t recall him having any belt bruising—I’ll ask him to confirm.

We believe Mike was thrown through the windshield and landed in the two-foot-deep, water-filled irrigation ditch. He lay submerged until Chris, with the help of people who witnessed the accident, got the passenger door open, spotted Mike’s white shoes in the dark, and lifted his head out of the water.

I followed the ambulance to the ER, and we spent the night hoping for answers. All tests came back normal except for a “slightly elevated white blood count”—which, if your ear gets torn off and your body lies in an irrigation ditch for 30 minutes or so, I’d expect some white blood cell action.

After a couple of hours—waiting for test results and for the doctor to finish with two other patients who had barely survived after mixing ammonia and Clorox—Myrna came in to keep us company.

Several hours later, still no answers, they prepped Mike to go home. I left to get the car. Myrna walked out with me through the ER’s double doors.

And there they were.

All of Mike’s friends stood up from the waiting area’s square-shaped seating configuration.

At that moment, I looked to my right—and sure enough—Myrna was wearing her multi-pastel-colored wind suit. I was reliving last week's dream. Minus the devastation.

There was absolutely no question in my mind.

Had I refused to obey the Lord five days earlier, there would have been a completely different outcome that April night in 1994.

Forgiveness matters.

Why? Simple. When we refuse to walk in obedience to the laws that govern God’s Kingdom, we, by default, place ourselves under the jurisdiction of the enemy and his kingdom.

And that’s just plain stupid.

Romans 6:16 (AMP)
Do you not know that when you continually offer yourselves to someone to do his will, you are the slaves of the one whom you obey—either slaves of sin, which leads to death, or of obedience, which leads to righteousness (right standing with God)?

If you're enslaved by the hurtful action of others - they consume your thoughts, direct your words, change your beliefs about who God says you are. That can change right now!

Dear God,
I am sorry for disobeying Your mandates. I have held such-and-such against so-and-so since blank and blank. Today, I forgive them. I release the offense and place the situation into Your more-than-able hands.

Thank You, Lord Jesus, for making this freedom possible by Your blood, sacrificed for me. The enemy is no longer able to cite that area of disobedience. I ask now for Your Kingdom to be made manifest and Your will realized in this earthen vessel as swiftly and completely as Your will is done in Heaven.

Thank You, gracious, merciful, and glorious God. Amen!

The Cross makes change in every situation possible. Not necessarily automatic. Some things require active obedience. Ask The Lord if there's anything keeping you a prisoner of war and what He needs you to do to secure your release. Jesus didn't do all He did so we could be stuck as POWs in the kingdom of darkness!

Forgiving is just the tip of the iceberg of God’s Kingdom ways. Maybe next time I’ll tell you about the day I quit agreeing with Satan’s assessment of who I was—and started agreeing with God instead.

 Turkey Races & Other Firsts

by Deb Moken

It took some serious sleuthing—but I am reasonably certain that Pukwana’s “First Annual Pukwana Turkey Race” was held in 1974. And I was there.

Just shy of my 13th birthday, I went with my cousin Kristy and her dad, Uncle Marvin, a bricklayer working on a job in Chamberlain. Chamberlain—an exotic town on the Missouri River 200 miles from my home—which boasted a stock dam capable of swelling to possibly an entire acre. Bodies of water were novelties. Recreation destinations.

So, when presented with the opportunity to spend the workweek in a camper at a park on the river—exploring the thriving East-Meets-West Gateway Metropolis—12-year-old me jumped at the chance. Can you imagine? Two young girls, 12 and 14, left to their own devices 200 miles from home? Me neither! But that’s what we did.

One evening we went to the State Theater on Main and saw American Graffiti. The second highlight was attending the aforementioned festivities a dozen miles away in Pukwana.

There weren’t too many “first annual” attendees. This I know because the 3.5-foot, vertically challenged me enjoyed a panoramic view of the entire affair—which, incidentally, struck me as both unimpressive and highly unlikely to actually have subsequent annuals. Nothing too memorable surrounding the festivities apart from watching a lady sprinkle salt into her beer, and one of us West River three (possibly even me) won a frozen turkey far too large for the camper’s fridge. We ended up bequeathing the prize to the malt-beverage flavor-enhancer.

I was wrong. Apparently, 12-year-old me didn’t have her finger on the pulse of a wacky idea’s draw or its ability to become ensconced as a mid-American annual tradition. A year ago, I caught a blip advertising the tradition’s half-century run! And I was there—at its inauguration. Who knew? I doubt any of year one’s handful of attendees thought they were participating in a historic kickoff.

On September 9th (9/9), I’ll be attending another “First Annual” event—one I hope has a half-century run while praying the reason for its inception is eradicated decades sooner: the Tee-Up for Treasured Lives Charity Golf Tournament, helping to end sex trafficking. This event is dedicated to raising awareness and funds to support survivors.

I hope you’ll be among the relative few who, 50 years from now, will be able to say, “I was there!  The first annual Tee-Up for Treasured Lives 9/9 golf tournament.”

The Most Significant Lesson Learned

 Life Brings The Test & We Learn The Lesson ~  

School Gives Lessons & We Learn The Test

By Deb Moken

​I was 32 years old.  We’d just moved into our home on Saturn in Rapid Valley.  It’d taken every scraped together penny we could come up with to get the mortgage through the state young home buyers program, and Mike’s VA loan guarantee.   I had 3 young children to focus all my energies on.  And a beautiful home to hone my wallpapering, and decorating skills on.  

We’d thrown my salon equipment in a bare corner of the basement. 

Jen was in kindergarten, going to school for half days. Rachel was a toddler. On nice days,  I’d load her in the stroller to walk the mile to pick Jen up from school.

A friend of a friend asked if I’d perm her hair in exchange for a piece of carpet, large enough for the other half of the half of the unfinished basement.  Sure.  Date was set.  Would have to be in the afternoon, after kindergarten and during Rachel’s nap-time.

I ran upstairs while the perm was processing to check on the girls.  I’ll never forget how sweet the scene that greeted me.  Jen sat squarely in the middle of the couch, thumb in her mouth twirling her hair, watching Sesame Street. On her lap lay Rachel’s sleeping head.  All was right with the world.

Ran downstairs and finished the perm, and walked out with the client while we said our goodbyes, as was and remains my habit to this day.  Weird, I know.  But that day, parked in the bright sunshine, her new black car had been vandalized.  A child had obviously been practicing their writing skills with a rock and had seen every door and quarter panel as their slate to unblank.  We circled the crime scene, in shock and dismay.  Even located the rock used to commit the offense, tucked securely in the right corner of the rear license-plate crevice. 

We lived on a cul-de-sac. Literally a playground for the neighborhood kids to ride their skates, bikes, trikes, and scooters.  Which, that bright, sunny day there were plenty.  While my mind was wondering which of the neighborhood children had done such a thing, the freshly permed and coiffed had already concluded my girls were the culprits.  She insisted I pay her insurance deductible, which was $1,000.00.  Claiming it was my responsibility, as her car was parked on my driveway.  As she insisted my children were responsible for the damage,  I agreed to the deductible but knew neither Rachel or Jen had done it… I’d seen them myself just an hour earlier.  The thumb-sucking-hair-twirlling-Sesame-Street-watching-lap-napping pillars of innocence upstairs on the couch.

But what do I know?  She accused.  I felt terrible for her (not that I ever thought my girls were responsible).  She was parked on my property.  So I agreed to pay her deductible.   Good thing my mom was a loan officer, cuz that’s the only way I was going to be coming up with that kind of scratch (pun intended).

Then the phone-calls started.  She decided she didn’t want to put in an insurance claim, that would cause a rise in her premium. She decided to bill me for the entire cost, estimated to be around 5,000 dollars.   

Ah, no.  That’s not going to happen.  I agreed to the deductible. You changed horses in the middle of the stream.  There’s no possible way I can come up with enough money to pay that bill, and told her so. I was informed that  she was going to contact the Cosmetology Commission and have my license revoked and the South Dakota Housing Administration, through which our mortgage was secured, because there was a stipulation that the money could only be used for buying a residence not a business, and since I permed her hair, that constitutes a business enterprise.

These calls came on a regular, seemingly weekly, basis.  I was devastated, terrified, indignant, manipulated, black-mailed and didn’t appreciate being extorted.  In fact, as I write this, 30 years after the event.  I am struck by the very real possibility that the damage was done elsewhere, (her office was behind the old Prairie Market complex next to the bike path, Rapid Creek, and hangout area for the transient, struggling, and homeless).  There is a very real possibility my home was not the scene of the crime, it was where the crime was first seen!  Holy Smokes!  What a revelation!

Anyway - back to the black-mail extortion story.  It was after the call threatening my career and home that I fell apart, and while bewailing the injustice, heard the Spirit of God say, “find out for yourself”.  

I called the SD housing office and asked if a salon would violate the mortgage agreement and was assured that no it wouldn’t.  Then I called the Cosmetology Commission and asked if doing someone’s hair in my home would be cause for having my license revoked.  Again, I was assured that, unless I was advertising a business - then no, my license was not in jeopardy.  

Lesson learned!  In 10 minutes I had 2 definitive answers that squelched the lies, calmed the fears, and defused the threats.  

I suspect she called the same offices and got the same answers - because that’s when the game changed and she decided to take me to small claims court and sue me for the 5,000.

This had gone on for months.  And don’t you know I took every opportunity to talk about the wicked, evil, lying, conniving, black-mailing extortionist.  I was building my case and growing in bitterness and unforgiveness.  I was justified!

Court date came.  Feb. 14th, Valentines day, we went before a judge. I read my statement and she, before the court, lied.  Bold-faced lied.  She claimed I had refused to pay her deductible!  She said nothing about her insisting I pay the entire bill!  

A week or so later, the court sent their decision.  I was found responsible to pay the lady’s deductible.  

Oh boy!  Wrote that check thinking it’s over.  Settled.  I could move on!  Nope.

The garden of hate, anger, resentment, bitterness, and unforgiveness was in full flower and self-perpetuating.  

I was trapped in a very dark place - and locked there by my own self- justification.  I couldn’t see the way out, but wanted desperately to find my way back to peace and love.

Around tax day, mid April, 2 months after the dismal day in court, on a Saturday night, I woke up from a dream.  It was vivid.  Colors and everything.  My friend, Myrna, and I walked out of a set of double doors. She was to my right, wearing her bright ‘wind suit’ so popular in the late 80s early 90s. It was the turquoise one. 

I was crying, angry, and said, “I can’t believe he left me!”  

Myrna siad, “You’re a single mom now. It’s going to be hard but you can do it.”

I thought we were walking out of a courthouse and Mike had divorced me.  In my dream, I looked up and there were all of Mike's friends from church, standing in a square, surrounded by flowers.  Weird, I thought. People don’t stand in squares.  And why are his friends here in this courthouse courtyard?

Then I woke up.

The next Monday, I decided to finally ask God what to do about this crappy, hate-filled, angry cesspool that had once been my heart.

“Ask her to forgive you.”

“WHAT?!?!?  You’ve got to be kidding!  She’s the one who lied, extorted and black-mailed me!  I’m the innocent one!  Besides, if I ask her to forgive me - she will take it as an admit of guilt!  She’ll rub my nose in it!”  

“And what is that to you?”

I tell you it took all stinkin’ day to finally write, “Forgive me”, on that card and spit on a stamp and shove it in the outgoing mail slot, so I couldn’t retrieve it, should the impulse to do so get the better of me.

Sure enough, on Thursday the phone rang.  She called to rub my nose in it.

That night I had another dream.

I was in the salon doing someone else’s hair and she was in my way.  She was a rather wide women, and the floor area of that space didn’t accommodate the 2 of us very well.  I was, in the dream, trying to avoid and ignore her - like the elephant in the room, so to speak.  No pun intended.

When finally she said, “I have one thing to say and then I’m out of your life forever.”

I spun around and snapped at her, “WHAT?!”

She took my face between her hands, kissed me and said, “Thank you.”  Then she disappeared and I woke up. 

 I was shaken to the core - but she was gone! The bitterness, hate, injustice and anger were all gone as well!

End of story?  Nope.  Not even close.

Two days later, that next Saturday Mike, Chris and Jen went with Kenny and Shelley (newlyweds) to play Putt-Putt at The Ranch.  It was going to be late, so I opted to stay home with Rachel. She was asleep when the phone rang.  The person on the other end said that there had been an accident and that my kids were with them at the convenience store down the road from my house.

“What about Mike?  How’s Mike?”

She just kept assuring me that my kids were fine.  The ambulance was there and the EMTs were working on him.

I called the neighbors to watch Rae and drove to the accident.  My kids were standing outside the convenience store with the lady who had called, and Mike was being wheeled into the ambulance.  

I really don’t remember much after that - I must have driven Chris and Jen home, called my folks to come to the house to stay with the kids and I went to the hospital.  I was in the ER with Mike and he was recounting the entire ordeal.   At some point my friend, Myrna, shows up, and we wait in the ER while they run the tests, clean him up and reattach his ear.

He’s going to be discharged. I was told to bring the car around to pick him up.  Myrna and I walk out of the double doors, leading from the ER to the waiting area, where all of Mike’s friends have been sitting in chairs configured in a large square, facing one another.  They stand when we walk out. And maintain that square formation.  I see the paintings on the waiting area walls.   They are the huge flowers I’d seen in my dream the week before.  And then I look to my right, and sure enough.  Myrna is wearing her turquoise wind suit. 

The only difference from the dream and what I was facing in reality was that I hadn’t lost my husband!  He was alive, and coming home.  I wasn’t facing a future as a single mom.  

There is absolutely no doubt in my mind whatsoever that had I refused to follow The Lord’s instruction on Monday, and not asked for forgiveness, the enemy would have killed Mike that night, and possibly Chris and Jen.  But a simple act of obedience was sufficient to squelch the plans the enemy had made and would have had every legal basis to execute, based on my actions, words, and insistence on playing by his rules of death for sin. 

 I had walked in sin for months by recounting, replaying, repeating, declaring, bad-mouthing, gossipping, and building my case rather than letting The One I claimed to be my Lord, Savior, Defender and King dictate my actions, words and behavior.  But the moment I surrendered to His instruction, even though I did so grudgingly and without any heartfelt agreement, the law was established and that single act of obedience allowed Heaven to intervene in Hell’s plans.  

Jennifer literally felt an angelic hand holding her against the bench seat she was sleeping on, but not buckled to.  Twelve-year-old Chris was buckled in the front passenger seat and was easily the hero that night.  From keeping the full-size Chevy conversion van from hitting any other vehicles on highway 44  when his dad blacked out, and stood up straight  and stiff on the accelerator, hitting the ditch on the right that had a small irrigation ditch.  When the van went airborne - flipped end over end Mike was thrown out, landing in that water-filled irrigation ditch, buffering the impact and just deep enough to keep him from being crushed.  

Chris climbed out and found his dad in the darkness because Mike's white sneakers were sticking out of the water. Chris held Mike’s unconscious head above the water until EMTs arrived. ​

Yes, things would have, should have, turned out very differently that night. But God is gracious!  He desires to work in our lives, but that ability often hinges on us.  If we want to enjoy the benefits of His Kingdom on Earth, as it is enjoyed in Heaven, we must obey the laws of Heaven’s Kingdom.  We can’t follow the laws of the kingdom of darkness and expect the fruits of God’s Kingdom.  

Was my simple obedient “Forgive me” - paid at the cost of my pride and a stamp worth it?  A million times yes!

Has the Spirit of God asked you to give up something so He might have legal recourse to intervene on your behalf?  A card, a 32 cent stamp?  A smidge of pride? The right to be ‘right’?

It is not because He needs a card or a stamp - He needs you to agree with Him and His ways so that He can break the hold the enemy has gained in those traps the enemy has set to keep us from enjoying life the way God has intended.

Just do it!

Psalm 100 Realized

 

Psalm 100 Realized

by Deb Moken

Had an interesting experience at church this morning during our time of praise and worship.  Gonna try to convey with words, what I believe was taking place in Heaven’s unseen realm.

Make a joyful noise unto the LORD, all ye lands.

Serve the LORD with gladness: come before his presence with singing.

What began as a sacrifice of praise (more on the ‘why’ of that later), became something I’ve never experienced before.  The sacrifice, graciously received by The One Whose praises were being declared, granted entrance into a holy, sacred place. 

Enter into his gates with thanksgiving… 

Like the Tabernacle of Moses or Jerusalem’s Temple illustrates, there is a progression; first through the gate. There is only one. And Jesus, oddly enough,  referred to Himself as The Gate in John 10:9. This area contained the altar of sacrifice where sins and transgressions were dealt with, to which all had access.  

…and into his courts with praise:... 

As a person heads West, past the brazen altar, there is an enclosed place. The barrier between the outer court and this sacred inner court was a door.  There is only one. And Jesus, oddly enough, referred to Himself as The Door in John 10:7.  This Court of Treaty housed the seven branched candlestick (Menorah) on the left, the table of showbread on the right, and in the center was the altar of incense which represented the prayers of the people.  Only priests had access to this sacred place.

  

…be thankful unto him, and bless his name.

Oddly enough, because of His Sacrifice on that cross, Jesus authorized us to be priests unto God in Revelation 1:6.  

For the LORD is good; …

And that brings us, in this mini Tabernacle/Temple tour, to the Most Holy Place a.k.a. The Holy of Holies.  A massive barricade separated the Inner Court (of Treaty) from this Holiest of all Inner Chamber.  A veil*. There is only one.  And, oddly enough, Jesus is referred to as The Veil in Hebrews 10:20.  

This veil was torn from top to bottom at the time of Christ’s crucifixion, to show the world that humans could, once again, have an intimate relationship with God.

…his mercy is everlasting;...

This room contained The Ark of The Covenant, which held the stone tablets of the law, a container of the manna Heaven miraculously provided, while the Israelites waited four decades for permission to enter the land promised them, and a rod God caused to bud with new life overnight in an effort to squelch an uprising against His anointed High Priest.  The lid of this trove of Heaven’s treasures was a solid gold work of art; two winged angels facing one another arched over the center. God named this lid The Mercy Seat and promised it to be the place where He’d meet with His creation.  Exodus 25:22  

-Back to this morning’s experience -

Ten days ago, hurricane Helene made landfall and at this writing, this deadly storm has cut a 500 mile swath of unimaginable devastation.  Lives, too soon and numerous to count, have at best, been upended; at worst, completely annihilated.  After 10 days, hopeful life rescue efforts have devolved into heart wrenching identification endeavors. Mind-numbing, soul-crushing stuff. This is what my mind hauled into church this morning.  

As we sang, I was very aware that the words were a sacrifice of praise being lifted up to Heaven, but the sacrifice wasn’t mine. It wasn’t the congregation’s sacrifice either.  We were standing, singing, offering praise for those too weak, devastated, broken and crushed to do so on their own.  We weren’t only praying for our unknown siblings in Christ, we were standing in their stead, offering their sacrifices of praise. 

I have no idea what that means.  I just know that it is. 

…and his truth endureth to all generations.

*Early Jewish tradition described this veil as being as thick as a man’s hand.

It's Puzzling
By Deb Moken 

I’ve been an orphan for nearly a month now.  Finally started sleeping through the night last week.  To say Dad or his memory haunted my dreams would not be accurate.  No, it wasn’t that, not that I’m an expert on the subject of hauntings and the haunted -  necromancy is not a thing I care to participate in - but to say my Dad dominated every non-waking hour for over 2 weeks would be fairly accurate.  

 Dreams don’t usually accompany my sleep, at least not that I am consciously aware of.  This was an unforeseen, inescapable, mysterious turn of events.  Nothing frightening or sad.  Nothing that could qualify as a memory or a regret… just innumerable particles of what, I knew instinctively, were connected to my dad. Somehow. Someway.

 I’m throwing this into print because:

a) it helps clarify the cacophony running amuck behind my eyes and between my ears, and

b) I’m curious to know if anyone else has had a similar experience.

 The dreams felt like being under a waterfall of puzzle pieces, too many to comprehend, let alone number.  Countless pieces each unique in shape and size.  I’d wake up several times a night feeling perplexed and overwhelmed; and in the morning, exhausted.

 I needed wisdom.  Thankfully, there’s an open invitation for just such a request.

 “Help me Lord.  I’m not ‘getting’ it.  What are these incessant dreams trying to communicate?”

 And just like that - the understanding began to penetrate.

 If an idea (i.e. dream) is, in fact, God breathed, and a human takes action to see it realized, does it not seem logical that the dream might possibly remain when the human departs?

 Those fragmented particles weren’t mine, but Dad’s dream(s).  I suspect the fragmentation represent the fractured incapability his mind struggled with the past 15 years or so. But maybe not.  Perhaps all Heavenly inspired enterprises fall back on the Earth like glitter or confetti at a ticker-tape parade.

   Regardless, what I came to realize is that, although he is no longer here, a person’s dream might, quite possibly remain.  

 Seems plausible.

 When Elisha asked his mentor, Elijah, to bequeath him God’s prophetic mantle, Elijah knew he didn’t have the authority to do so, but told Elisha if he should happen to witness Elijah’s exit from this life that would confirm the prophetic ministry had been entrusted to him.   

 I don’t know what Dad’s dream(s) entailed.  I do know he set out to build a farm that would sustain his family, and do so honestly and within his means, not use others as stepping stones to ascend a mountain of public approval or recognition.  

 When that information finished downloading into my heart and mind, I asked the Lord to relay a message to Dad.  

 “Jesus, please tell Dad that his life mattered.  That his dream will, in some form, carry on.  I cannot say what it will look like when those who pick up the pieces begin to reassemble them, but knowing his family, we will attempt to do so in a way that honors and adds to his legacy while attempting to build our own.”

 That night, and every night since, I’ve slept in peace.  I believe the message was relayed.