I’m still feeling groggy this morning, the blocked nose lingering like fog over my thoughts. I didn’t get up at 4:45 am when I first stirred. Clive was already awake, on his phone — apparently, I’d been snoring. I turned over and closed my eyes again. This cold or flu has clung to me for a couple of days now. My lips are cracked and sore... winter lips for the 3rd time since we've been in New Zealand and honestly… I don’t just feel tired. I feel flat like a battery that’s not just low, but completely flat.

Somewhere in the early morning stillness, I had another strange dream. I don’t remember much, only this vivid image — something hanging out of my left eye tooth. When I pulled it, it unravelled like a never-ending bandage until there was a huge pile in my hand. That same tooth had fractured recently. Not long ago — only two weeks — I’d been to the dentist for that exact tooth. The filling had broken. The tooth, mostly patchwork now, was fragile. And even the recent repair has already begun to wear down again. A real-life echo of the dream's imagery.

Then, I found myself downstairs, wearing old pyjamas — a long t-shirt top I used to wear in South Africa before the boys were even born. More than 28 years ago. They were on backwards. I hadn’t expected anyone to be there. Yet I could sense Clive and others nearby. Embarrassed, I rushed back upstairs to change — to cover, to make myself more presentable. Isn’t it wild how shame still finds ways to whisper, even in sleep? Yes, that girl still lives somewhere inside me — the one who wore oversized tops, not to be seen, who hadn’t yet mothered, ministered, or mended.

That moment pierced deeper than I expected. Why do I still feel the need to hide when the past shows up on me?

Downstairs again, Elias was in a neighbouring room. I avoided him, though not from fear or bitterness — only detachment — a quiet ache that no longer feels safe to expose. Oddly, when I saw him at The Crate on Friday, I didn’t feel the urge to leave. I just didn’t feel like engaging. In the dream, he stood at the door, back turned, putting on a cream jacket I’ve never seen before. Something about that image felt symbolic. A departure. A new identity. A distance. Maybe even a finality. Only time will tell where this relationship leads, but for now, the friendship I once cherished is fraying at the edges. Broken trust is hard to mend when safety has been compromised.

There are places in me still learning to be seen — as I am now, and as I was then. Even when I wear the past inside out.

I'm being reclothed in righteousness, precious one — and no old garment, no foreign jacket, and no broken tooth can ever define me. Today I let this dream be my invitation to shed the past and step into what is new, clothed by grace.