Proof The Bible Is True

Here I was again, back in Memphis, Tennessee. I stood in front of the massive wrought iron gate, shaped like a songbook and dotted with musical notes. A sense of calm washed over me. Like I belonged. Like I was home. I pushed the gate doors open and made my way up the long, winding driveway. The mansion rose before me, its white Corinthian columns and stone lions unmistakable. He was calling me closer with every step. The King himself. Elvis Presley.

 

My eyes snapped open and I sat up in my bed on the couch with a start. Six o’clock in the morning. I glanced around the cramped one-bedroom apartment. I was still in Columbus, Ohio, at my friend Pauline’s place, where I’d been living ever since I lost my job as a nurse’s aide two months earlier. Around the same time the dreams started.

 

They were always the same. Me at Elvis’s home in Graceland, walking through the gates of his stately Southern estate. Sometimes I even made it inside the house. It was all so bizarre. I’d moved around a lot in my life. But I’d never stepped foot in Tennessee, let alone Graceland. I wasn’t even a big Elvis fan! That was my mother’s thing. She loved his music. Me? I could sing along if one of his songs came on the radio and I’d seen footage of Graceland on TV, but that’s as far as my knowledge went.

 

I got up and rubbed my neck, sore from another night of sleeping on the couch. Pauline and I had worked together before I was let go. I was so thankful to have a place to stay until I got back on my feet. But part of me wondered if that would ever happen. I’d applied to about a million jobs, even outside my field.

 

I had asked God to guide me, but I’d never felt more lost. Like every door had been slammed in my face. Unlike at Graceland. In those dreams, I felt calm, self-assured, like anything was possible. Yet what did it all mean?

 

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