There's a voice in my dream. A narrator, you could say. No, an interpreter. A man's voice telling me what the dream means, like how the narrow road leading into the dark tunnel reflects the sins of my heart. The sin of believing I know myself. The sin of answering my own questions instead of relying on the truths of old books and men. The sin of wanting to let my mind run free.

I point and fly through the tunnel of my sins, out into the light, looking for a safe place to hide from the voice. I fly down empty streets of a city I've never seen before, past towering brick buildings filled with stories I've never heard. I look for the difference between what I know and what I want to know. I focus on seeing, but the voice bleeds through. Do you think God doesn't know your mind? Do you think he doesn't see your rebellion? Submit, my child.

I am no child. Even in my dream I know that. The finger I point is bent and painful with arthritis. The scene misted with the brown of cataracts. I fly, because I can't run. I am not a child.

The voice disagrees. Yes. You are. You're the child of God. See the cross on the hill? See the rock rolled away from the crypt? God has risen. He made the rainbow. He opens the sky to rain. He nourishes the fields. He created the world and declared it perfect. Even in your dream he rules and knows your heart.

I scream, No! This is my dream. Get out!

My words are swallowed by thunder. Lightning zigzags across the sky, but I refuse to believe it's a sign from God. It's mother nature. It's father sky. It's the truth of the aboriginal. A truth that reveals that truth is abundant. It doesn't live in one place. It doesn't belong to one man or one story. It moves like a river. It moves like the stars across the sky. It moves any direction my mind wants to take it.