I had a dream last night. I was in Israel or somewhere in the Middle-East. I was with a group of fellow believers and we had a busted up old pick-up truck, like an old Toyota. One of the bolts holding the rear axle was gone, and we had to drive through a dangerous neighborhood. I believe I was with Israelis trying to drive through a Palestinian area, but being a dream, I was not entirely sure.
Those who could crammed into the front of the truck, and somehow I was the lone rider in the back. That was not good. The driver of the truck gunned it and as best as the truck could, we started driving through the streets, which were reminiscent of those one sees on TV over in Iraq or Afghanistan.
Out of nowhere, hoards of people came running out of their houses, their shops, whatever, to yell at us in some foreign tongue, and hurl rocks. I was covering the back of my head as best I could, but of course the truck was flailing about madly as we ran the gauntlet. Rocks were smashing the windows out, the sides of the truck were being destroyed, and the din of the seething crowd was terrifying.
I believe we made it through, but I awoke and thanked God there I was in a bed in a home in Alaska. This dream I had could just as easily have been somebody else's reality. There are Christians in the Middle-East who live that life; persecution, hateful mobs, rocks thrown at them by any number of anonymous enemies. Jesus, give those true martyrs an extra dose of strength today.