I had another bizarre dream early this morning. For some reason I was taken into an interrogation room, except it looked more like a motel room from the sixties or the nurse's room in a school building. I wasn't nervous or scared, especially when my interrogator entered and it was one of the guidance counselors at our local high school (I don't know this woman personally, but she seems very approachable and helpful, so her appearance in my dream wasn't alarming). She asked whether we had a secret room in our house and I remembered a tiny door in our previous home under the basement steps where I used to joke about dead bodies being stored. Thinking that was what she was getting at, I explained. She asked a few other benign questions and then left.
A few minutes later, a different woman entered (what does it mean that she was the woman who took my check at the Board of Public Works yesterday?), and asked about my husband's temper, wanting to know if he ever flew off the handle in the bathroom (you can't make this stuff up, folks). I couldn't think of what she may be referring to and told her so. Then she said that a high school kid named George Jensen had relayed some incident to her. I never heard of George Jensen and had no idea how he'd possibly know anything about my husband and his bathroom habits.
Now I was getting scared. It didn't really matter what I said, these people had already formed their conclusions and backed them up with fictional people named George Jensen. How could I justify myself for some crime I had no idea I'd committed?
The second woman left and the other came back in. Without saying a word she started hooking electrodes onto my upper lip and turned the juice on.
"That. . .hurts," I uttered in shock.
"It hurts?" she said, not looking in my direction.
As the electricity intensified, I got agitated and demanded to know why this was happening. Evil guidance counselor said nothing and worked about in the room, unscathed by my cries, while I writhed in pain on the bed, moaning.
Then my youngest child was brought in, my sweet, loving Miss Innocent One. Seeing her mother sobbing brought her own tears, intensifying my pain. She ran from the room terribly upset.
(Are you breathing heavy yet like me? Isn't this horrible?)
Finally I was unhooked from the machine, again with no explanation, and ran to find my daughter to assure her I was okay. I didn't find her, but ran into a friend who apparently brought her there. My friend could care less about what I'd gone through, but only wanted to get rid of my daughter so she could go about her business.
About this time my alarm rang. Hallelujah. This is one day I was glad for morning to arrive!
I have no idea what all this is about, but in my attempt to find a way tweak a blog post from it, I thought about Jesus before the high priest and Pilate. Surely the Son of God didn't feel as helpless as I did, did He? Yet, just like in my dream, it didn't matter what he said, his accusers, the Pharisees who should have recognized who He was, were going to make sure He looked bad. So Jesus said very little, offered no explanation, knowing it was pointless. He didn't try to justify Himself.
He trusted His Father.
Therein is the lesson.
I've confessed here before my problem with wanting to please people. I can't possibly explain my every action to others. There will be times my behavior will be misinterpreted, giving some an impression of me I don't want to give. While the little girl people pleaser inside of me wants to scream for justification, Jesus says one thing.
Trust the Father.
He will handle the accusations, the wrong impressions, the disdain from others.
Trust the Father and live.