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Dreams amed

Found 14,103 dreams containing amed - Page 288


Explore a collection of the latest dreams shared by our community. Discover common themes, intriguing narratives, and unique symbolism. From vivid adventures to thought-provoking scenarios, these recent dreams offer a glimpse into the subconscious mind and may even spark insights into your own dream world. Browse the "Latest Dreams" to find inspiration, connect with others, and delve deeper into the fascinating realm of dreams.

I dreamed that my dead mother was alive. We were in our family home and my mother and I were arguing. My mother had a seven year old little girl in her arms. She had blond hair. My mother was complaining that her back was sore and she tried to hand the child to me. I got up off of the sofa and I told her that she was a bad mother. She had not been a good mother to me when I was growing up and that she wasn't fooling anyone with her saintly mothering act. I started to walk away and I felt my mother behind my back, my mother was looking for something to hit me with. I turned around and started yelling at my mother. She went to hit me and I grabed her by the neck and started to choke her. I was yelling at her and she said something to me. She took her hands off of my hands and I let her go. We were standing at the top of the stairs and she fell backwards. I turned away and ran up the stairs to the top floor. I ran into my mother's old bedroom. There was no furniture in the room and the room was much larger in my dreams than it actually is. I called someone that I do not like and was crying and telling her that I did something bad and that I needed to see a lawyer. I woke up.

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It always started with a vibrant color red slowly fading into the background, like a backdrop of evil setting the scene. Around the edges and into the corners of my vision were black shadows, the darkest I had ever seen. I entered from the left, terrified beyond measure, yet determined to get what I came for; my grandparents’ release from Hell, from the bondage of Satan himself. Nana and Papo, my paternal grandparents, would enter from the right, distraught, resigned, yet, a bit hopeful. I ran to them, hugging and kissing them. I can still feel the way my grandfather’s solid middle felt against my skinny, half-grown arms. And then there was Satan. His voice boomed over us like thunder. My heart seized with panic and sank like a rock within me as terror washed over me like an ocean’s wave. For just a moment, the three of us huddled together, Nana, Papo and me. Then, after what felt like an eternity of being frozen in fear but seconds of being comforted by the warmth of their bodies, of their love, my voice found me. I freed myself from the entanglement of their arms and knew I had to do this on my own. I demanded their freedom. I asked that they be able to return with me to my home. While I do not remember the words that roared from the scoffing voice overhead, I remember that my request was denied. Nana and Papo had to stay in Hell. There was no question about it. Then, they turned and exited back from whence they had come, resigned, saddened but willing. I screamed. I screamed their names. I screamed in protest. I screamed because of the injustice. They did not belong there. They knew Jesus. And yet, it had not been enough. In that moment, He had not been enough. That’s when I would awake in a panic, crying, hardly able to breathe. Yet another thing was out of my control. Yet another injustice was being committed and I could do nothing. My voice was not being heard. My stomach was churning as was my heart.

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