The Warmth of Yellow
- The Gardener
- May 18
- 7 min read
Updated: Aug 15
Some dreams don’t just pass through the night. They linger, layered, asking to be remembered — not to be explained, but tended like seeds in the soil.
I had to go back.
I don’t know why—there wasn’t a clear reason—but I was being forced to go back.
Back with my ex-husband. Back into that life.
We were moving in together again—stepping once more into the facade of marriage.
Before the move, I was talking with a pastor.
He knew the history, the weight of it all.
He didn’t tell me what to do.
Just looked at me gently, speaking into what was rather than what should be.
“If this is happening,” he said, “go in with intention. Make the best effort.”
So I went.
Not with peace.
Not with choice.
Just the endurance this world required.
Another mask.
Another motion.
Another weight to wear.
And still—
the quietness of faith remained.
Not in the path,
but in the One beside me
even when the road wasn’t His.
We were in a truck next—dark charcoal gray and packed tight.
I was squished between him and a young woman whose presence was calm, kind, almost like a buffer.
A therapist in the dream, maybe.
Someone meant to help us transition.
My dad was driving, though I never saw him directly.
Just a soft reflection in the rearview mirror—his presence superimposed over the mountain of moving boxes.
His arm, his essence, faint but felt.
The young woman beside me began humming.
I told her to sing.
The song on the radio was Rise Up.
She started slowly, then opened her voice wide and full.
I turned the volume up and shouted with joy, “Sing it, girl!”
She belted it out, and I felt something move inside me.
Joy—real joy—rising.
I was singing and dancing in my seat.
I couldn’t help but smile.
He sat unmoved. Just there. A shadow in the seat beside me.
We arrived at a small, storybook house.
It looked like something out of a fairytale—curved red-shingled roof, red stairs, creaky floors.
Built around a tree, though you couldn’t see the tree from the inside.
Two stories: a kitchen and sitting room below, a tiny bathroom and bedroom above.
Everything was old, but not broken—just worn by time.
We moved in, and the young woman called us into the living room.
She sat on the floor in front of us and asked, without flinching:
“Would you ever buy or adopt a child?”
I blinked. “Buy a child?” The question caught me off guard.
She looked at me knowingly. A subtle reminder.
And I remembered—how he came to have her.
I nodded gently. “That’s right... you bought her.”
My tone was soft. Not mocking. Not judgmental. Just naming what was.
Then I added quietly: “But that doesn’t change anything.”
Because it didn’t.
She was here.
He loved her.
And that made her worthy—completely.
The therapist spoke truth without flinching.
Sassy, clear, honest—and I appreciated it.
I wish more people were like that.
Especially those meant to help others heal.
We started talking about our kids.
About what blending our families would actually mean.
They already knew each other.
But the reality—discipline, routines, parenting choices—it all weighed heavily on me.
But it wasn’t: How are we going to do this?
It was: I don’t want to do this again.
I had only just begun to see the light again—after nearly a decade of darkness.
And now I was being pulled back into the very nightmare I had finally escaped.
He stood up and said dismissively, “We’ll deal with that tomorrow or another day,” and walked out.
A performance.
A diversion.
A way to control the room by drawing focus to himself instead of the truth.
I went upstairs to use the restroom before dinner.
He had just come out.
It was the tiniest room in the house.
You had to squeeze between the walls and a tree branch that jutted into the space—disguised as part of the structure, but undeniably in the way.
I lifted the lid.
It was full.
He hadn’t flushed.
The toilet handle was broken—resting on the counter.
He broke it and walked away. Left the mess.
Left it for me.
So I fixed it.
Flushed it.
Just to make room for myself.
As I descended the stairs, each creaky red step echoing into the living room, I saw something shift.
The young woman was standing in the middle of the room.
The music had returned—Rise Up, playing again, clear and full.
She had risen.
She wore a yellow headband, and the way it caught the light was like holding sunlight.
It wrapped around the room—and me.
I laughed—actually laughed—and ran the rest of the way down to meet her.
We started dancing. Spinning.
I shouted, “Sing it, girl! Louder!”
And she did.
She opened her lungs and her soul and let the song pour out.
It was beautiful. Pure. Honest.
And I couldn’t stop smiling.
This. This is what I want.
This was joy.
This was freedom.
This was life in its simplest, most sacred form.
Not forced performances.
Not obligations wrapped in silence.
Just singing.
Just smiling.
Just being safe and happy and free.
Even as I sensed him outside again—pacing, impatient, frustrated we weren’t moving fast enough to get to dinner.
But I didn’t care.
Not in that moment.
Because this—this light, this laughter—was real.
And everything else was not.
Later, the house was quiet.
I was brushing my teeth.
The therapist had gone.
It was just the two of us.
I looked toward the bedroom and saw him lying on the floor, motioning me over.
First with irritation.
Then with anger.
I rinsed my mouth and moved toward him, like someone pulled by invisible threads.
I curled into a ball beside him—my head near his belly, body curled tightly away.
We formed the shape of a “T”—but I was folded in, small and quiet.
I felt it all again.
The dread.
The ache.
The old terror wrapped in skin.
If it were someone safe, I thought—someone kind, someone gentle—
I would’ve stretched out. Unfurled. Melted.
But instead, I rolled myself into a ball.
Hiding the little girl inside.
Protecting her.
I didn’t want him near my femininity.
Not my softness.
Not my innocence.
Not my tenderness.
He’d hurt it too many times before.
I cried quietly.
And still… I reached out and rested a hand on his knee.
Not out of love. Not out of longing.
But because I was still doing what was expected.
Still obeying whatever unseen force had dropped me back into this.
Not hoping it would work.
Just enduring it.
Because I knew we were being watched.
We had to decide.
To make it official.
Slip the rings back on.
But it was never really a choice.
Just two options:
Do it unwillingly, or do it unwillingly... with a smile.
Inside, I prayed:
God, I can’t do this again.
Please don’t ask me to do this again.
And then—He came.
Not in sound.
Not in thunder.
But in stillness.
A presence.
A knowing.
Understanding.
I felt it.
The faint whisper in the back of my mind…
Wait.
Patience.
And in my heart, that nudge—gentle, but unmistakable.
A promise forming beneath the fear.
A way being made, even if I couldn’t see it yet.
And then I woke up.
What It Reveals
This dream caught me in the tension between quiet obedience to God and personal agency, between history and healing, performance and presence.
My ex-husband wasn’t so much himself as a system: control, old narratives, the demand to endure in silence. The young woman and the song Rise Up carried truth, boundary, and resurrection into the story. The house itself felt like a parable — built around a tree no one could see, shaped by an old wound.
And through it all, God’s presence remained. Not endorsing the path. Not commanding the return. But steady beside me, whispering promise into the ache.
What It Asks
Where am I still performing obedience out of fear?
Have I confused endurance with faithfulness?
Am I mistaking survival for surrender?
What does joy actually feel like in my body — and will I let myself choose it?
Do I believe God’s presence means He approves of the road, or could it mean He is simply merciful in walking with me through it?
What It Undoes
The myth that suffering in silence is always obedience.
The false belief that survival with a smile is faithfulness.
The lie that joy is frivolous, when it is in fact holy.
The assumption that God’s presence means His endorsement.
What It Plants
An intuition that joy itself is sacred — not luxury, but direction.
The whisper that a way is being made, even when unseen.
A rediscovery of feminine strength that protects, discerns, and restores.
The courage to name the unseen tree in the middle of the house — the wound shaping the structure.
Seed for Thought
Faith does not ask me to return to bondage to prove endurance.
It asks me to rise. To sing when my voice returns.
To dance when the light comes in.
To flush what was left behind.
To believe joy is holy too.
Holding Thoughts Captive
Theme: Endurance vs. Obedience
Dream Insight: “Not with peace. Not with choice. Just the endurance this world required.”
Biblical Alignment: 1 Peter 2:21, Galatians 6:4–5
Further Insight: Endurance born of fear is not obedience. True obedience aligns with peace and God’s character.
Theme: God’s Presence Even on the Wrong Road
Dream Insight: “The quietness of faith remained. Not in the path, but in the One beside me even when the road wasn’t His.”
Biblical Alignment: Psalm 23:4, 2 Timothy 2:13
Further Insight: God’s mercy keeps company with me even in missteps.
Theme: Joy as a Marker of True Freedom
Dream Insight: “This. This is what I want. This was joy. This was freedom.”
Biblical Alignment: 2 Corinthians 3:17, John 15:11
Further Insight: Joy is resurrection. It signals the Spirit’s presence.
Theme: False Structures Built Around Wounds
Dream Insight: “A tree branch jutted into the space—disguised as part of the home’s structure, but undeniably in the way.”
Biblical Alignment: Hebrews 12:15, 2 Corinthians 10:5
Further Insight: Old wounds reshape lives until named and healed.
Theme: Cleaning Up What Was Never Yours
Dream Insight: “He hadn’t flushed... So I fixed it. Flushed it. Just to make room for myself.”
Biblical Alignment: Galatians 6:2, 5
Further Insight: Compassion doesn’t mean carrying what isn’t mine.
Theme: Forced Covenant vs. God’s Invitation
Dream Insight: “Slip the rings back on… But it was never really a choice.”
Biblical Alignment: Galatians 5:1
Further Insight: God’s covenant is chosen in freedom, never in coercion.
Theme: Sacred Femininity and Safe Intimacy
Dream Insight: “I didn’t want him near my femininity. Not my softness.”
Biblical Alignment: 1 Corinthians 6:19–20
Further Insight: My tenderness is a temple, not a burden.
Theme: God Speaks Through Stillness
Dream Insight: “Not in sound. Not in thunder. But in stillness.”
Biblical Alignment: 1 Kings 19:12, Psalm 46:10
Further Insight: God whispers, not to overpower, but to draw me near.
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