Lord, I dreamed about my brother Larry this morning. He was alive. Healthy. Walking around like death had made some kind of mistake.

And in the dream, I was completely stunned because my mind kept saying, “But you’re supposed to be dead.” Yet there he was, breathing, smiling, existing like he had simply stepped out of the room for a little while and finally come back home.

For a few precious moments, grief loosened its grip on me. My heart forgot reality. I forgot loss. I forgot that cruel finality that comes with burying somebody you love.

Then I woke up.

And waking up felt like losing him all over again.

Dreams are strange that way. They open doors your spirit has been standing in front of for years. Sometimes I think our minds visit the people we miss because love doesn’t know what to do with absence. It keeps searching. Keeps reaching. Keeps hoping.

This morning, for a little while, my brother was still here.