Last night I had a weird dream...

In this dream, I was an adult back in primary school — not to regress, but to revisit something formative. I received a report card that implied failure. It wasn’t about a real academic shortcoming, but a deeper internal narrative: "You should be further along by now." This inner critic, rooted in old wounding, may still be trying to measure my worth by performance — even in my spiritual walk.

Curiously, there were two English classes on my schedule. Two teachers. Two rooms, side by side. Then, a voice through the phone: “Mr Turnbull” — the one I needed to be with. The name whispered something deeper. “Turnbull” might symbolise the turning of my will or direction — perhaps a turning back to something pure and childlike, or a turning toward a new spiritual teacher or guide. The glass wall between classrooms suggested transparency but also division. It felt like I was on the threshold — able to see but not quite yet with the one I was meant to learn from.

Then came the tears. Deep, bitter weeping. Not just sadness, but a soul-release. Perhaps grief over a perceived delay, or a longing to belong, to understand, to sit safely in a classroom of grace where I’m not behind, but becoming.

At the end of the dream, I returned to the beginning and picked up what looked like my first Bible from grade one. Yet unlike my real one, this was old, worn, well-used. A powerful image. Not of who I was, but of who I'm becoming. A woman whose faith is lived-in. Weathered. Real. Not shiny and new, but deepened through trial and tenderness.

Then this morning’s Scripture tied the thread:

Not a command to perform, but an invitation to dwell. The Hebrew word for meditate here implies murmuring, chewing, turning over in the mind. A slow feast. Not a sprint. Not a test. Not a report card.

I’ve struggled to understand the Word — especially the Old Testament. Coming from a Godless home and only having been introduced to Sunday School by neighbours at age 7, Scripture sometimes feels like a foreign language. But maybe this dream is His way of gently saying:

Maybe, just maybe, those 3am wake-ups aren’t an inconvenience, but a sacred appointment. Coffee-snuggle time with YHWH. 😊

A Prayer for the Returning Student

Father,

Thank You for speaking in dreams when our waking minds are too distracted to hear. Thank You for reminding us that it’s never too late to learn again — to return to the places where lies took root and rewrite the story with truth.

Lord, give me courage to open the Word, not with fear of failure but with childlike expectancy. Let my mornings with You be filled with warmth, clarity, and revelation. Where understanding once felt foreign, make it familiar. Where shame whispered “you’ve failed,” silence it with the joy of Your presence.

Let the Bible I now open not be a symbol of what I missed, but a companion in the journey ahead — full of grace, growth, and Your steady guidance.

In Jesus’ Name, Amen.

And in the silence of the early morning, I can hear Him whisper gently:

Take heart, dear soul. You’re not late. You’re right on time. And His Word — even the parts that feel like riddles — will open to you like a well-loved book returning home.

You are not back in school because you failed.

You’re back because He’s about to teach you something new. 📖💖