hope for the desperate
As I was riding on the passenger side of a pickup truck being driven by a stocky black-haired man (probably in his early 30s), I suddenly had a strong premonition that I was in a dangerous situation and that the man was going to wreck the truck. I groped for my seat belt, which I hadn't yet buckled, and strapped it across my waist. I found the shoulder strap and also strapped it on. We weren't traveling that fast and the man seemed to be driving well enough. Could I trust my premonition? I quickly decided I could. I didn't understand how, but I knew I was in imminent danger.
Just ahead of us on our right was a two car accident. As we passed the wrecked cars, my driver deliberately grazed one car, a white one, then laughed. Since our truck was undamaged, he continued on without braking, but I had seen enough and when the truck eventually came to a stop, I jumped out.
Standing on the sidewalk, I raised my eyes and observed a large, dull-red brick church in front of me. I regularly passed down this street, but I had never taken notice of this church before, or at least I had never noticed how huge it was. I thought that standing in front of the church – as I was now doing – was necessary to appreciate the church's magnificence.
A name on the church resembled the appellation of a church which I had heard about in Portsmouth, Ohio when I had been young. I couldn't remember having ever attended the church, but it seemed my family had once intended to go there.
The sight of the church affected me emotionally. I knew my feelings had something to do with God, but I couldn't precisely understand them. I just knew the church had a pronounced impact on me.
Other people were walking in the area, and I noticed one woman in particular who was standing at the top of the stairs which led to the doors in the front of the church. Along the sides of the arched doorways to the church, there appeared to be large red stones which were laid like the steps of a stairs, so one could actually walk up to the top of the doors. As I watched the woman descending the stairs in front of the doors, I thought I might even want to walk to the top of the stairs over the doors. Wondering if ascending to the roof might even be possible, I scanned the rooftops for signs of people.
The voice of a man who had walked up close to me abruptly interrupted my musings. He was probably in his 50s, and I had the uncertain feeling that he might be connected with the church. When I felt his eyes upon me, I realized I had a gray hood pulled up over my head, so only my face was visible. He asked me if I would like to confess. As I replied, I began to feel tears in my eyes. I didn't particularly want to cry in front of the man, but the tears offered me some solace. I explained to him that I didn't confess, that I had never confessed. I couldn't see his reaction, but I thought I heard him utter something about a special woman who could hear confessions of people like me. I had the feeling he thought I was a desperate case, but that there still might be some hope for me.
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