Dream of the Rolling Green Hills

Dream of the Rolling Green Hills

The house I stayed in seemed to have been in a light shambles, as if it came out of a scuffle, intact but shaken. And the burnt orange and gray car I’d been given was in similar condition. None of the doors locked so everything was accessible. The cash in my car trunk was “concealed” among junk mail and uninviting sandwich wrappers. There was no place to hide anything as all had been exposed. Looking around I saw that every house and car was in the same state of deterioration.

The spells of local witches had increased in number but were less effective, so they no longer took satisfaction in their deeds, which had also been exposed. Truth was harder to discern and yet there remained one bastion of hope as the ancient prophetic seeds planted long ago in godly family lineages were beginning to sprout, even among children. These were the kind of people whom others might consider to be witches because when they simply told a mountain to throw itself in the sea, it would obey! Storms were halted and torn limbs regrew at their words, instilling fear accompanied by a curiosity to draw near and touch these ones who, like everyone whose ships were sinking these days, seemed to be confident captains anyway! They just couldn’t see how such faith could thrive in the chaos of the material world.

As in previous dreams, pockets of refuge quietly appeared in Tennessee and Kentucky, along with the Ozarks and other regions with rolling, green hills. In these regions people could still live in their homes with their stuff around them before the end, when caves in the cliffs became the best choice.

And I saw people I’d known in the rolling, green hills, some who’d left Israel when called back to America. Their gifts and powers of discernment and even martyrdom resembled the terrifying rise of mighty rivers converging into one which merged with all tears that would soon reap with songs of joy.

20.12.25