I am sitting on the front porch of our home on Aspen Way in Morgan Hill, California. All of my family is there with me, although we are all younger in this dream than we were when we actually lived there. There is an unexpected, loud noise in the sky above our home. We all walk onto the lawn and look up. Two large, rusted gunships, enormous helicopters, ten, twenty times larger than anything we’ve seen before, flank some sort of fighter. There is the sound of large cannons in the air above us, as well as rapid fire. We watch as our aircraft multiple into a flying armada–an armade that is under fire from other craft approaching over the foothills to the west.

Opening my arms wide, I shepherd my family into the house. The roar of cannon fire overhead is deafening. I see and hear silvery bullets tearing into the bushes and shrubs like violent hail stones as I step inside the house and slam the door behind me. Soon our house is being rattled by percussion bombs. My wife and children are huddled on the floor behind the heavy sofas and I join them there as the noise of the battle continues. At this point, all of our children–including Benjamin–are there.

Time passes, the rain of bullets and the thunder of the warships quiet and we all take our first tenative look outside. None of our neighbors’ homes seem to be damaged, but a good many trees are fallen and splintered, and there are craters in some of the yards. It seems that the green, growing things received the worst of it.

But later, the signs of an impending battle return. The sky literally fills with a tepestry of battleships–layer upon layers of strange airborne gunships are above us, each layer traveling in some other direction than those above and below it, toward a different objective, on a differing mission. Soon, a kind of snow begins to fall through the layers of warships and, at first, it almost seems peaceful. However, the silvery bullets return, mixed with snow–a concoction of white ashes and silvery bullets.

I’m in the living room listening to Marge, Matthew and Leslie talking about the strange happenings outside. I think the other children are in their rooms, so I’m dumbfounded when the glass door opens in the back and Sarah and Ben walk into the house. The neighbors, Ben explains, are organizing. He is carrying a rifle I didn’t know he had and he wants me to see that he is somehow older and bigger than the others. It seems these two have volunteered. The noise and action outside are increasing and we all kneel for what I sense will be our final prayer together as a family. The dream, which is incredibly vivid, ends as I look out the open door at the white-ash snow falling.

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