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Dreams of Darfur Below are dreams I have had that I have transcribed into my journal. Please read them and continue to pray. As a future voice for the United Nations, I want to advocate for awareness and real change. Please join me in this effort. The dreams have continued and the crisis is still severe!!! Barack Obama's new nomination of Susan Rice as the U.S. Ambassador to the United Nations is a step in the right direction for justice in ending the genocide in Sudan. However, there is much work to be done. Please spread this note around and build awareness of the severity of the crisis. Thank you for your support:)

Africa needs our prayers!!! Below are dreams I have had that I have transcribed into my journal. Please read them and pray. July 18, 2006 Last night I dreamed that we were in white tents, either as press or living quarters in the Central African Republic, near the outlying countries surrounding Sudan. I saw the land, the dipping valley, expansive mountains, green forestry, streams, rivers, dry land, famine, little kids playing on big boulders in the river, roaming alone through the open land. Shacks, small houses, more land. African trees. We were there as aids and to minister, help, cover news press, care for the citizens, pray, crusade. Then the shacks got more run down, a collapsed one, little kids running out of them, trying to take cover someplace else. Fear, danger, violence, abandonment. Then unbearable sights. First a rundown house, then a mud stream of sandy , rocky, murky, bloody, and drenched puddles. A quicksand view of pebbles, sand, blood, flesh, babies. Dead babies. Dead bodies. Killings. Terror. Bodies. Blood. Slop, unrecognizable corpses, small children. Dead holding places, military with riffles, uniforms. Violence. Children scattered, deprived, famished, starving, in need of shelter, and protection. More blood. Deep crimson red blood, stained on white cloth. So much pain, blood, deaths. Almost too unbearable to see and keep my eyes closed to watch so much killing and hatred. Peace is needed. No one’s coming to help. Deserted. Terror! More bodies, poor, poor babies. I’m crying as I try to bear it. Why so much genocide? Now there’s a dark, dank, long white pavilion that is rectangle shaped with side wooden beams. It’s dark, a dark place of sorrow. A place of sin, of sex slaves, young girls taken here to be used and fooled with for pleasure, pain, and control. It’s so unbearable. Filthy. God, please rescue them! Save them! Then, I am at the United Nations assembly and on a big black screen, illuminated in golden yellow words: DARFUR CRISIS scrolls on repeat across the screen. January 15, 2008 Last night I dreamed of Darfur again. Like so many other dreams, the crisis continues. This dream is very symbolic. I am in this bedroom of my house, it is like my room. There is a closet cleared out on top and it is open. I am with an older white lady. I know that we are in Darfur territory and the militia is coming after us, to kill us. The white lady is like a missionary or U.N. person. It is a refuge camp maybe. She urges me to hide. I am searching to find where. She is then propelling me up to try and hide on the top shelf of the closet. I hardly make it to the top, catching the edge with one of my feet and getting on the ledge. It is not secure and immediately falls down, with me, some clear and blue glass cups and pottery crashing to the floor. The glass shatters. They were expensive sentimental antiques in this home. Things from the past. The lady does not bother with it, but urges me to hide quickly. I think that with the glass down there, maybe the militia will think that the room has already been raided for victims. The door is open. I go to my closet and I climb toward the back, behind long dresses. I try to hide. She says “no, don’t hide there, they will surely find you.” Then, a small African boy runs into the room carrying a riffle. He goes straight to the closet and jumps inside, on top of some clothes. The boy is 4 years old, bald and thin. He is an orphan, for his parents have been killed. His village, burned and


destroyed. He is forced to kill. The Janjaweed militia has recruited him young. Abused him, terrified him, and forced him to kill or be killed. He has gunfire wounds, burned skin, upraised from shooting the gun. His body is bruised and stained with the blood from his victims. He is shirtless. He points the gun up and says that he will kill me. My heart is moved with overwhelming compassion. I do not fear for my life. And even if he were to point and shoot, I would not spear back or defend myself, like in the movie “End of the Spear.” With such an enormous godly compassion, I look at this child and say, “I love you.” I wrap my arms around him gently, not worrying about the riffle he holds, or the blood and residue on his body. I hold him, as if he were my own child and I say, “I love you.” “I love you.” Over and over again. Until he finally released his tears and all of the pain and abandonment he feels. He cries for the loss of his parents. For the loss of his innocence. He cries for the death he has witnessed and the death he has brought from his own riffle. He cries for every other little child forced to kill and live in fear, from place to place. He cries from the void in his soul, releasing all of the questions he has no answer to. Finally acknowledging his need to be loved. And as he cries, he finds healing, rest, and protection. He falls asleep in my embrace. Just as soon as he has rested, a lady of a fair hue comes into the room, looking for victims. She sees us in the closet and the boy wakes up a bit. In and out of sleep, he tells the lady of the peace and freedom he has found. He clings tightly to my safety net and renounces his roll as a child soldier. He will never again return to that life. He realizes he doesn’t have to. That he actually has a choice. He is going to stay here with me. He lays back down and falls back into a deep sleep, a sleep that is not hindered by the fear of being discovered. The lady says that she could kill us, but she is going to show mercy and spare our lives, as she has done with so many others in rooms down the hall. She tells us not to leave the door open and she puts white paint or chalk on our door, so that the rest of the militia will think the room has already been raided and victims killed, so that they will pass us by. I am reminded of the death plague during the times of Moses. God’s Spirit is what spared us. God’s Spirit is what touched that boy’s heart, healed him, and released him into rest. God’s Spirit is also what is going to save this war torn region. “Send me, I’ll go!”

Africa Needs Our Prayers!!!


Dreams of Darfur  

Dreams of Darfur

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