“I Saw Him in My Dreams”

Last night, I dreamed a dream.

I was walking down a narrow alley,
wet with rain and shadow,
the kind of alley that smells of rust and old bread,
the kind of place where the world throws away
what it doesn’t want to see.

And there He was.

A boy, maybe ten years old.
Barefoot.
Eyes wide, brown as fresh earth after rain.
Tears had carved little rivers down his dusty cheeks.
He was trembling,
hugging his knees behind a dumpster,
trying to disappear.

When he looked up at me,
I felt my heart stutter.
Because I knew Him.
I knew Him like I know my own breath.

It was Jesus.
Not on a throne.
Not in stained glass.
Not even in a manger.

He was a ten-year-old Mexican boy.
And ICE had just taken His parents.

When I woke,
I could still hear His whisper in my chest:
“Tell them My story.”

HIS STORY (Jesus speaks)

I am ten years old.
My name is Jesús.
Mama says my name is a prayer
that flies straight to God’s ears.
But tonight…
I wonder if God can even hear me.

The night explodes
Engines roar.
Lights cut the walls.
Men shout words I only half understand:
“ICE! OPEN UP!”

Mama’s hands shake,
wet from the dishes.
She smells like soap and tortillas.
Papa holds his hat in both hands,
like he does when he talks to someone with power.

Then...
boots.
chains.
hands on their arms.
I can’t move.
I can’t breathe.

“Mijo, run!” Mama cries.
“¡Corre, Jesús!”

So I run.
Bare feet on gravel. Ay! It hurts.
But I keep running.
Mama said, “No mires atrás—don’t look back.”

I hide behind the big green dumpster.
It smells like rain and sour milk.
I hug my knees so tight
I can hear my own heart thumping.

I peek.

Papa’s hat falls to the ground.
Mi Papá…
His strong hands,
the ones that held mine when I was scared,
now trapped in silver chains.

Mama screams my name.
“¡Jesús!”
Her voice cracks like glass breaking.
Then the man pushes her into the van.
Her face disappears.

I cover my ears,
but I still hear the slam of the door.
I still feel it in my chest.

A tear slides down my cheek
hot, salty.
I lick my lips and taste dirt and fear.

I whisper,
“Diosito… are You here?
Padre nuestro, que estás en los cielos…”
My voice hiccups.
I can’t finish.
I cry harder,
tiny sobs shaking my whole body.

I remember the story Mama told me
the baby who had to run away,
soldiers everywhere,
mothers screaming in Bethlehem.

I thought that was a story from long ago.

Now it’s me.
Soy yo.

I curl tighter in the dark and whisper,
“No me dejes solo… please, don’t leave me alone.”

If you walk this alley tonight,
you will hear God crying.
If you look in my eyes,
you will see heaven reflected in my tears.

“I am Jesús.
I am the Christ you sing about,
the One you hang in gold and silver,
the One you claim to follow.

But tonight,
I am ten years old.
I smell like fear and rain.
I am hiding behind a dumpster,
alone in the dark,
and I am waiting for you.

When you take my Mama,
you take Me.
When you chain my Papa,
you chain Me.
When you turn away from my tears,
you turn away from God.

So I ask you,
Where were you?
Where are you?
Will you leave Me here?
Will you find Me in the alley?
Will you lift Me from the ground?
Or will you walk by,
and leave the Son of God
crying in the shadows?”

Rev. Allison Burns-LaGreca