Are You Coming With Me? — Michelle McAfee

A prophetic dream foretells a fork in the road of life

It is twilight. Lavender-blue glow fills the sky. I am alone, standing on the side of a two-lane blacktop road feeling lost. The white line painted on the asphalt at my feet stretches for miles to the north.

I hear a distant hum behind me to the south. A black car approaches and slows down, stopping on the road in front of me. The passenger window is down. A gentle-spirited man with long black hair peppered with gray strands falling well past his shoulders has one hand on the wheel. His eyes are dark and shining bright with life and deep calm wisdom, “Are you coming with me or are you going to just stand there?”

The sound of his voice is familiar.

I sense he completely understands who I am and is still unafraid. I pause, frozen for three heartbeats, then my hand reaches for the door and opens it. I choose to get into the car, slide onto the seat next to him, and look straight ahead at the long highway in front of us. I’m a little scared because I don’t know where I’m going, but it feels so right to get in the car with this man.

The headlights dim . . . oh, the headlights are on. An awareness of closing darkness infiltrates my thoughts and I realize the highway is fading or is it just the light? My arms feel heavy at my sides. A sense of slipping away fills me, like when I was a kid and held on tight to the edge of the swimming pool until I let go . . . and floated.

Thump . . . thump . . . thump . . . I know that sound. Eyes open and I see a window. Glittering little stars stare back at me. My heart rate picks up from its very slow rhythmic pulse.

That dream came to me June 15th, 2015.

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Prophetic dreams have haunted me since I was a small child.

Some of the dreams are big and scary, and others are more like normal life. All of my prescient dreams, however, look and feel the same. They have a certain color, tone, feel, and characteristic about them. They are as realistic as the shoes on your feet or the chair you are sitting in.

But those dreams tend to simplify the details, putting emphasis on strong symbols that are easier to remember. A lot of us have a hard time remembering any dreams at all. So, the dreams have to make a crystal clear statement or image for our waking brains to remember.

Why is it so easy to forget?

A study from 2019 found that our ability to make memories is impaired during REM sleep, making us prone to forget our dreams. Most of us have 4–6 dreams a night, but we forget the vast majority of them. When one of my dreams comes through so strong that it feels as real as life, my brain pays attention. The dream almost always brings a message. Many indigenous people describe time as a circle or a spiral. That makes sense to me. It’s the only way I can wrap my head around prophetic dreams.

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Sometimes Ellen talks like a river through a canyon.

Always deep, sometimes tumultuous, and forever fascinating. My ear is numb from the phone pressing against it for two hours.

“I think you should come to the Rockies. Take a break. You’re working too much. I have a friend running a healing workshop. I think you should come.”

I take her advice.

Ellen picks me up curbside at the airport and drives us through Arapaho territory to a wood-floored house surrounded by prairie in the Colorado Front Range. I walk in the door a little nervous, as I always am when I meet new people. A very tall, gentle man with long black hair peppered with gray strands walks out of the kitchen towards us. Ellen introduces me to our host Danny. My face flushes red and butterflies flutter in my belly. I write it off as being overly nervous. There are six or seven other people at the house. A few are making food.

Five hours later, everyone goes to bed, or to sleeping bags on the floor.

I am buzzing from the conversations and dark chocolate pudding someone made for dessert. Pulling out a journal, I sit on the end of the couch, knees tucked up to my chest. Words flow about the flight, my new acquaintances, and how good it is to see Ellen again. Goosebumps rise on my arms as a breeze lightly moves through the room. I look behind me to see if the window is open. It’s closed tight. I turn my eyes back to the paper I am writing on, and a few minutes later Danny walks in.

“Are you always up this late?”

“Only when I can’t sleep.” I smile at him.

“Can I join you?” He throws his chin towards the empty couch cushions next to me.

“Sure, have a seat. It’s your couch anyway.”

We sat on the couch for hours that night.

Danny tells me about the kids he teaches at the school, and the counseling he does when he’s not teaching. His face lights up like a bright star when he talks about running workshops, and helping kids in crisis. I can’t tear my eyes away from the glow radiating from this man — until he asks me, “Tell me about your life. What do you do out in Oregon?”

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It’s the last day of the workshop.

A dozen people are seated in a circle and I am at the far end. Eyes are closed. There is a quiet pause. Then words, sounding like a long-ago language, fill the room. Danny is leading a group healing exercise followed by a meditation. There is a cadence to his voice that feels hypnotic and soothing. Something in me wants to break free, open the door I locked tight long ago, and walk around inside that neglected room in my chest. The muscle that holds love is atrophied. It’s guarded by the sharp-tongued dog named Fear, sworn to protect it.

A sob-less, steady stream of salty water runs down my face. I feel like I am floating and can lucidly see what keeps me alone and running. There is a split second, like someone flicking on a light bulb, that illuminates the path I want to walk. Shimmers the woman I want to be. Clearly, I can see it.

And then it is gone.

After stacking chairs, I catch a ride with Ellen and another woman back to Danny’s house. He stays behind to clean and lock up the workshop space. Half of the participants arrive and begin making supper. One man packs up and leaves to make the drive back into the city. I need to get some air. I hang a left at the end of Danny’s driveway and walk a mile or so.

It is twilight. Lavender-blue glow fills the sky. I am alone, standing on the side of a two-lane blacktop road feeling lost. The white line painted on the asphalt at my feet stretches for miles to the north.

I hear a distant hum behind me to the south. Danny’s black car approaches and slows down, stopping on the road in front of me. The passenger window is down. That gentle-spirited man with long black hair peppered with gray strands falling well past his shoulders has one hand on the wheel. His eyes are dark and shining bright with life and deep calm wisdom, “Are you coming with me or are you going to just stand there?”

It is April 16th, 2017.

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I will always wonder what may have happened if I got in the car.

I ended up taking another road than the one my dream suggested. The car represented an invitation to a relationship with a wonderful man. I didn’t think it would work with us living a thousand miles apart. What experiences did I miss? Was my choice the correct one? What was the message the dream was trying to tell me — Heads-up, this is coming, pay attention and pivot? Or . . . Hey, wake up! You don’t want to let this pass you by.

I’ll never know.

Unless I fall asleep tonight and find myself in the land of bent time where the future happens before the now. Maybe my now self can warn my future self that I made a mistake and need a second chance. Would you send the car, please?

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