Most of our dreams, we cannot remember beyond just that few moments between being fully asleep and fully awake. Nighmares, however, can leave a lasting impression and can remain in our memories for a very long time. This nightmare I spoke about in this poem is just such a dream. I can recall in vivid detail the horrifying images and still feel the terror associated with them. I can also recall in just as vivid detail the feeling of comfort I had when Dad came to my bedside. As I was thinking about that scene a few years ago, the words of this poem came to me. I wrote it down as fast as I could write and here is the result.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
My Father’s Hand<\/strong> \nI remember years ago, when I was just a child, I had a dream. It was a dream so scary that I screamed I felt the comforting touch of my father’s hand.<\/p>\n A few years later, when I had grown just a bit. I was, once again, in fear. I had hit rock bottom. I was I felt the comforting touch of my Father’s hand.<\/p>\n Time has passed, and I have children of my own. They have known times of fear, not knowing what They felt the comforting touch of their father’s hand.<\/p>\n There will be times in their lives that I cannot be there with them. It is then that I pray they will be They’ll know the comforting touch of their Father’s hand.<\/p>\n \n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Most of our dreams, we cannot remember beyond just that few moments between being fully asleep and fully awake. Nighmares, however, can leave a lasting impression and can remain in our memories for a very long time. This nightmare I spoke about in this poem is just such a dream. I can recall in vivid […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","enabled":false},"version":2}},"categories":[3,6,30],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-148","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-family","category-personal","category-poetry"],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p3Mji6-2o","jetpack_likes_enabled":false,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/musings.butchevans.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/148","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/musings.butchevans.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/musings.butchevans.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/musings.butchevans.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/musings.butchevans.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=148"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"http:\/\/musings.butchevans.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/148\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":149,"href":"http:\/\/musings.butchevans.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/148\/revisions\/149"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/musings.butchevans.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=148"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/musings.butchevans.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=148"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/musings.butchevans.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=148"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\nWritten\u00a0November 2000<\/p>\n
\nout loud. It seemed so real. My heart was racing. As I looked up from where I sat in my bed, I saw
\nhim standing there next to me.<\/p>\n
\nfeeling so desolate and all alone. I looked up from the mess that I was in and I saw Jesus waiting
\nthere.<\/p>\n
\nto do. When I looked down at them looking up at me, I know what they we needing.<\/p>\n
\naware of Him. I know He’ll be there. That’s what His word declares. My prayer is they’ll see Jesus
\nstanding there. . .He’ll wipe away their tears.<\/p>\n