Dreams Speak the Language of the Heart

March 13, 2026

This morning I had a dream about my dad.

In the dream there was an event taking place in a gymnasium. It felt like some kind of celebration. The whole gymnasium was full. I was sitting in the far back section of the bleachers, toward the top, and the stage was off to my right.

I was waiting for my dad’s part of the program.

I thought I already knew what it would be.

There was music playing, and I expected the transition into his part would be an audio recording of him saying, in his joking and playful voice, “Okay everyone, time to listen up.”

That was the plan I had in my mind.

But while I was waiting for the music to fade and the recording to begin, I saw my dad standing quietly on the gym stage in his meek and humble nature. He was looking across the open floor at one of my friends who stood on the other side holding a microphone.

They were signaling to each other.

Then she began to sing.

Her voice was the most angelic, beautiful sound that filled the entire gymnasium. And in that moment I realized my dad had arranged something different for his part of the program.

As I watched, a thought crossed my mind.

I should record this.

So I pulled out my phone and zoomed in toward my dad’s face. But then he sat down on the stage next to the podium, and the podium blocked my view of him.

I remember thinking, Should I go down there to get a better angle?

So I did.

I walked down from the bleachers and adjusted the camera until I could see him again.

That was when I saw his face clearly.

My dad was crying.

Behind him were people from my youth group from many years ago, surrounding him and comforting him.

The music continued, and suddenly the entire crowd disappeared. We were no longer in the gymnasium.

My dad was now in a different room with the same group of people comforting him, while I remained where I was—but somehow I still had a straight shot of him. I could still see him clearly through my phone as I kept recording.

Then my mom walked up to me.

It took me a moment to realize that I had not seen her for a while, and then it hit me again that she had passed.

My mom died in May of 2025.

She was wearing a maroonish-red outfit. Her thin black hair was tied back. And she had a big smile on her face.

I turned the camera toward her.

Then I reversed the lens so I could capture the two of us together in that moment. After that, I turned the camera back toward my dad.

And that was when something settled deeply into my spirit.

I realized that he would be joining her soon.

I told my mom,

“Tshuav tsi ntev txiv yuav lug koom koj.”

It won’t be long before dad joins you.

I kept repeating it, and I bawled my eyes out as the realization settled deeper into my spirit.

Then I woke up.

Fugie’s palm was resting gently on my forehead. I laid there crying for a while before I could speak. When I finally found my voice, I told him about the dream.

Dreams like this often carry the language of the heart more than the language of logic.

They stitch together memory, grief, love, expectation, and sometimes a quiet awareness of things we have been sensing but have not fully said out loud.

As I sat with this dream, a few movements stood out to me.

In the dream, I was waiting for my dad’s planned moment.

The audio recording.

The playful introduction.

Something structured and familiar.

But instead, my dad changed the program.

He stood quietly and allowed someone else to sing.

Life often unfolds this way. We think we know what the script will be, but the story moves differently than we expected. What appeared in the dream was not performance or control, but humility and vulnerability.

That is exactly who my dad has always been.

Meek.

Humble.

Never needing to stand in the spotlight.

My friend’s voice filling the gymnasium felt sacred.

Music in dreams often represents something spiritual or emotional that words cannot fully carry.

And the fact that my dad arranged it stood out to me.

It reminded me that some people may not speak loudly or center themselves in a room, but they still create space for something beautiful to happen.

Almost like their role is not to perform, but to invite beauty.

That feels very much like my dad.

Throughout the dream I kept trying to capture what was happening.

Zooming in.

Adjusting the camera.

Moving closer when my view was blocked.

It felt like my heart was saying something simple but urgent:

I need to remember this.

I don’t want to lose this moment.

The camera became a way of holding onto time before it slips away.

When I finally moved closer and saw my dad’s face clearly, he was crying.

Behind him were people from my youth group from years ago comforting him.

That detail stayed with me.

Those people represent a season of faith, community, and formation in my life. Seeing them there in the dream made me think about the long story of my dad’s life—who he has been, the people who walked with him, and the things he has carried through the years.

Then my mom appeared.

She wasn’t frightening or distant. She was simply there.

Smiling.

Present.

Wearing her maroon outfit with her thin black hair tied back.

In that moment my mind recognized something that grief sometimes hides from us during our busy days.

I haven’t seen her in a long time.

Even when we know someone has passed, that realization can still land suddenly in the heart.

When I turned the camera back toward my dad, something settled into my spirit.

I told my mom,

“Tshuav tsi ntev txiv yuav lug koom koj.”

It won’t be long before dad joins you.

I kept repeating it as though to comfort her but the truth of it weighed on me. I cried.

Dreams sometimes allow us to practice grief before it happens. They allow emotions to surface that we might not let ourselves feel during the day.

When I woke up, Fugie’s hand was resting on my forehead.

That detail matters to me.

After dreaming about loss, I woke up to someone physically present beside me. It felt like my mind was being carried from grief back into the safety of the present moment.

This dream doesn’t necessarily mean something prophetic or literal is about to happen.

More often dreams like this happen when we love someone deeply, when we sense their fragility, and when we are still processing grief for one parent while the other is still here.

My mind created a scene where:

My dad was honored.

Beauty surrounded him.

People comforted him.

And my mom was waiting.

It is a tender story, even though it is painful.

Next weekend I will be attending my uncle’s funeral.

And in July, my siblings and I will be visiting my dad and celebrating my niece’s graduation.

After I shared the dream with Fugie, I told him something that surprised even me.

I said, “I think this July might be the last time we see dad.”

I hope I am wrong.

I truly hope I am wrong.

But whether that feeling is right or not, the lesson still stands.

Pay attention.

Move closer.

Hold the moments that matter while you still can.

Because one day the rooms will grow quiet, the crowds will disappear, and the memories we captured—whether with a camera or in our hearts—will be the songs that remain.