The Girl in the Dream

Was this a church? The high, vaulted ceilings made it seem like one—almost but not exactly.

Molly Pennington

That’s the way things often are in dreams, and I was dreaming now. Deeply. A woman entered the room. With her was a small child, a girl in soft, lavender footie pajamas. She was barely a toddler, still a baby in many ways. Her brown hair was braided and her big, dark eyes were beautiful. But it wasn’t their beauty that struck me so much as the quiet courage I saw reflected in them as the child took a tentative step forward.

I sank to my knees, putting myself at her level. Don’t be afraid, I thought. The girl hesitated a moment, clinging shyly to the woman. Then, as if making a decision, she opened her arms and toddled toward me. My own arms were open and waiting to catch her. Her little body was soft and warm and right in my embrace. As if she belonged with me. “You’re fine,” I said as I rocked her gently. “Everything’s going to be just fine.”

I opened my eyes to the sound of my alarm clock. Beside me, my husband, Val, rolled over and got up. Elsewhere in the house, I could hear our sons, Dash, 16, and Phineas, 6, stirring. I climbed out of bed. By the time the kids had left for school and I started the breakfast dishes, I barely remembered the details of my dream.

It was no surprise I was dreaming about children. After a lot of discussion, Val and I had decided to adopt a child. A little girl, we’d agreed when we filled out the application. A little older than Phineas, so she would be in between the two boys in age.