Years ago, I had a dream. In it, I was imprisoned. No criminal action thrust me into confinement, but there I sat anyway. This was life, it seemed—like it was normal to pass one’s days on the inside.
Sunlight pierced the bars. The door of my cell stood ajar by about eight inches. Male guards strolled by, no malice in their presence.
“Hey, can I get out of here?” I said to one of them.
“Sure,” he said. “Door’s open, and no one’s stopping you.”
But it was wedged open—locked in place—and I couldn’t fit through the tight space, the door not swinging one way or the other for me.
This week, two different sources at two different times on two different days pointed me to the words of the prophet Zechariah.
Return to your fortress, you prisoners of hope; even now I announce that I will restore twice as much to you.
I remember two men with a cause, living almost six-hundred years after the minor prophet. Paul and Silas preached Hope, springing a slave girl from the prison of her life. Her handlers, furious when their girl was loosed, threw the men into jail. But their songs in the night, stronger than their chains, freed not only them but also the convicts around them who listened in.
Unlike my dream as a prisoner with an open door, I’m not stuck. There’s hope. Hope in God, through song, for the release. The ultimate key for the unlocking.
No matter what confines me—or tries to—I'm already free.
And today I sing.
*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family, neighbors, and friends in the neighborhood, and in a nod of appreciation to the beloved Swedish author Maj Lindman, I’ve renamed my three blondies Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka.