I try to pay close attention to my dreams.

I was flying home after being gone for two weeks. I was tired
but I always have trouble sleeping on a plane. I have the same 
problem in a car or a bus, but a plane is usually more comfortable.
I leaned my seat back just a little and closed my eyes. My body slept,
it rested motionless, but I wasn't really asleep. I was aware of
nothing except time passing inside my head. I blocked
out everything and let my mind go where it wanted, hoping it would
play a while and then lay down with me and we could both sleep.

But my mind is a workaholic, it kept wanting to worry about things.
The news about the mother who drove her car into the water and
drowned her two young sons was fresh. I have children, I know how
hard it is to care for them, I know the desperation one sometimes
feels. I was sad that this woman felt she had no choices, no 
alternatives. I wondered why didn't someone sense her desperation
and try to help. Then I wondered who among the people I know
might be in that same situation, that same feeling of hopelessness
and I do nothing. Why don't I help out more? Why can't I make
a positive impact on the world? I worried about being away from my 
family, leaving my wife for two weeks to carry on alone. I worried 
that I wasn't doing enough. I wasn't directing my family like I 
should, wasn't leading by a strong example. 

The plane landed and I hurried down the concourse, no luggage to
claim because I could only be home for a weekend and had to leave
Sunday. I went outside and saw my wife at the curb and gave
her a hard kiss. The two boys were in the car, grinning, "Daddy
came home!" We hurried home, talked a little and went to bed.
I didn't talk about my feeling, the sense that I should do
more. I know my wife would answer that I do a lot, that I'm a
good father. But I wanted to be more.

"You want to help?" my dream seemed to ask. "Yes, what can I do?"
I saw the car by the edge of the lake, slowly rolling into the
water. I saw the woman screaming. I could see the little boy at
the back window, the incredible frightened look of uncomprehending
horror on his face. The front of the car dipped into the water and 
it seemed to glide in front first like a diver, head down. 

Then I was in the car. The older boy was still in the back seat,
sitting on the back of the front seat as the car slowly tipped over.
The baby was in his car seat, crying. Crying because he was upside-
down now, crying because his brother was crying, crying because his
mother was nowhere to be seen. The car was completely upside-down
and water was quickly pouring in from everywhere. I realized where
I was and tried to open the door. I tried to roll down the window.
I tried to kick at the glass. I couldn't get out. I knew it was
a dream, but I wanted to get out, to get those kids out, to show
that mother that I could help her, please don't do this.

Water filled the entire car, and the sobs of anguish were muffled.
I looked at the boys and they looked at me, grimaces of depthless
sadness frozen on their faces. I took the older one in my arms
and stroked his hair. The baby in his carseat, upside down,
reached for me and I took his hand. My dream found the memory of
the feeling of a baby's wet hand and I could feel the little fingers
extended and surrounded by my grip. Both boys looked at me, the older
one sucked his thumb and laid his head on my chest. The baby
also stopped crying and I stroked his cheek. No smile, but his
mouth closed and his eyes looked at me, not blaming, not wondering,
just telling me of his sadness. I couldn't speak, I couldn't escape, 
I just held them and calmed them and watched them die.

A dream might be a message from God, it might be a message from
myself, but a dream is worth nothing if not understood. I realized
the tragedy of life, that we don't do enough, that even if we
tried we can't do enough. We are all doomed, convicts on death row,
waiting for the execution to be carried out. We can do no more
than give each other a little comfort, to hold each other in
our arms. Let's not begrudge that which we can do just because we
can't do more.