There are seasons in life when the soul feels especially porous—when memories, grief, prayer, and mystery seem to mingle in ways that defy logic but feel undeniably real. Since November of last year, I’ve been having dreams about my deceased ex. Some were fleeting, some confusing, some simply emotional echoes of the past. But last night’s dream was different. It was vivid, coherent, and strangely peaceful. It felt like a conversation that needed to happen.
And when I woke up, I didn’t feel shaken. I felt grateful. I immediately began praying, thanking God for what felt like a moment of healing.
That instinct—to turn to prayer—reminded me of something St. Teresa of Avila taught about the interior life that has always resonated with me: prayer is not a ritual but an intimate conversation between friends. It is the place where God meets us exactly where we are, often in ways we don’t expect.
A Dream That Felt Like a Visit
In the dream, he wasn’t distant or symbolic. He was simply him—the person I knew, the person I once loved, the person whose life had intertwined with mine during our Los Angeles years and beyond. We talked the way we used to talk: openly, honestly, without pretense.
At one point, I asked him:
“If you are dead and in heaven, why am I seeing you? Am I in heaven or dead?”
It was a startlingly direct question, even inside a dream. But instead of fear, I felt clarity. We talked about his daughter. We talked about his best friend—Laddie-his BFF from our LA days. We talked like two people who had unfinished emotional business, finally given the chance to speak without the weight of time or circumstance.
When I woke up, I didn’t feel the sharp sting of grief. I felt warmth. I felt released. I felt like something inside me had been gently rearranged.
Not out of desperation, but out of gratitude because Maurice had visited me.
St. Teresa of Avila and the Interior Movements of Prayer
St. Teresa of Avila understood these kinds of moments better than most. She believed that God often works in the quiet interior spaces of the soul, not through dramatic visions but through subtle shifts—peace where there was pain, clarity where there was confusion, tenderness where there was fear.
She wrote that true spiritual experiences can be recognized by their fruits:
- Peace rather than agitation
- Humility rather than ego
- Healing rather than longing
- A deeper turning toward God
Your dream—my dream—fits that pattern. It didn’t leave me clinging to the past. It didn’t reopen wounds. It didn’t confuse me. It brought peace. It brought gratitude. It brought a sense of closure I didn’t know I needed.
St. Teresa would say that this is one of the ways God consoles the soul: not by erasing grief, but by transforming it.
Dreams as a Gentle Language of Healing
I don’t claim to know whether dreams like this are spiritual, psychological, or a blend of both. But I do know this: the impact matters more than the explanation.
This dream didn’t frighten me. It didn’t make me question reality. It didn’t make me long for what was lost.
It made me feel whole.
Sometimes the mind processes grief in images and conversations. Sometimes the heart releases what it has been holding through symbolic encounters. And sometimes—just sometimes—God uses the imagination as a soft place to land, a place where healing can unfold without resistance.
If you’ve ever had a dream that felt like a message, you might resonate with exploring healing dreams or the idea of grief processing during sleep.
Prayer as a Response to Grace
The moment I woke up, I prayed. Not because I was afraid, but because I was grateful. Prayer became the natural response to the peace I felt.
This is exactly what St. Teresa meant when she described prayer as a movement of love. It’s not always about asking. Sometimes it’s simply about acknowledging the presence of grace.
My prayer that morning wasn’t structured. It wasn’t formal. It was a spontaneous thank‑you:
Thank You, God, for healing me in ways I didn’t even know I needed.
If you’ve ever felt prayer rise naturally from a moment of clarity or peace, you might appreciate reflecting on spontaneous prayer or on prayer as gratitude.
Healing Arrives Quietly
Healing doesn’t always announce itself. It doesn’t always come through breakthroughs or dramatic realizations. Sometimes it arrives quietly:
- in a dream
- in a memory that no longer hurts
- in a conversation that happens only in the heart
- in the sudden awareness that grief has softened
Last night’s dream was not a message of death. It was a message of life.
It reminded me that healing is happening. That God is near. That love doesn’t disappear—it transforms. And that prayer is the bridge between what we’ve lived and what we’re becoming.
A Closing Reflection
I wasn’t seeing him because I am dead. I was seeing him because I am alive— alive enough to heal, alive enough to remember without pain, alive enough to receive comfort, alive enough to pray with gratitude.
St. Teresa would say that God is leading each of us gently, personally, uniquely. This dream was not an ending. It was a continuation of grace.
And my prayer that morning was the soul’s way of saying: “Thank You, Lord. I am ready for peace.”
A Closing Prayer for Healing, Peace, and the Quiet Work of God
Before ending this reflection, I want to offer a prayer—one shaped by gratitude, by the wisdom of St. Teresa of Avila, and by the peace that Scripture promises to those who seek God with an open heart.
“Let nothing disturb you, Let nothing frighten you. All things are passing; God never changes.” — St. Teresa of Avila
And from Scripture, a verse that feels especially fitting for moments of unexpected peace:
“The peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.” — Philippians 4:7
Prayer
Lord, Thank You for meeting me in the quiet places— in dreams, in memories, in the soft spaces where healing begins. Thank You for the peace that visited me last night, for the conversation that brought closure, and for the gentle reassurance that love does not end with death.
I lift up my heart to You with gratitude. You know the grief I’ve carried, the questions I’ve whispered, the healing I’ve longed for. And in Your kindness, You offered comfort in a way I could receive it.
Teach me to trust these movements of grace. Teach me to rest in Your presence. Teach me to pray with the simplicity St. Teresa described— as a conversation between friends, as a place where nothing is hidden and nothing is forced.
May Your peace continue to guard my heart. May Your love continue to guide my healing. And may I walk forward with gratitude, knowing that You are with me, that healing is unfolding, and that nothing—neither life nor death— can separate us from Your love. Amen.
An Invitation to Share Your Story
One of the quiet gifts of healing is realizing we’re not alone in it. So many of us carry memories, dreams, or moments of unexpected peace that shape our spiritual journey in ways we don’t always talk about. If this reflection resonated with you, I invite you to pause and consider your own experience.
Have you ever had a dream, a memory, or a moment of stillness that felt like God was gently tending to your heart? If you feel comfortable, you’re welcome to share your story in the comments or in your own journal. Sometimes speaking our healing aloud helps it take root.
If you’re unsure where to begin, you might explore your own experiences of healing dreams, moments of unexpected peace, or times when prayer felt like companionship with God.
A Guided Journaling Prompt
If you’d prefer to reflect privately, here’s a gentle prompt to sit with:
“Recall a moment—waking or dreaming—when you felt unexpectedly comforted, guided, or at peace. What was happening in your life at the time, and how did that moment shift something inside you?”
Let your writing be honest, unpolished, and tender. This isn’t about analyzing the moment—it’s about noticing what it stirred in you.
May God continue to bless you mightily!
xx00xx
