Somewhere, but Nowhere(Kanesha Andrews) Dreaming -

I’m fortunate to have fallen asleep and to be dreaming once again. This time, however, I am not ascending the staircase of stars. Perhaps it’s because of the emotional and spiritual turmoil I’ve been facing lately. Instead, I find myself walking down a long desert road. What strikes me most is how I am dressed: a white, sleeveless ankle-length dress beneath a sheer black duster jacket adorned with Christian crosses, suns, moons, and stars. On my feet are simple black sandals—not extravagant, but comfortably fitting for the journey.

As I walk, I look up to see the sun shining overhead. Yet, I don’t feel its heat. Instead, it radiates a comfortable warmth, though I sense that, as my journey continues, its intensity may eventually become overwhelming. A gentle, cool breeze brushes against me, soothing for now. But deep down, I know that, just like the sun, the wind may turn fierce, carrying stinging sand into my eyes. This road is not meant to be easy; I can feel it in my bones.

Then again, what in my life has ever been easy? While there have been moments of joy, they are balanced by sorrow. As I continue walking, I become aware of someone beside me. I glance to my side and see a man. His long, dark hair frames gentle, loving eyes, and his complexion is a neutral tone, impossible to place into any category. He’s dressed casually: a blue t-shirt, jeans, and a white button-down shirt tied around his waist. There’s no mistaking who he is.

“Hello, my child,” he says.

“Yeshua,” I reply softly.

“Are you still angry?” he asks.

“Not angry,” I say, “more like... feeling stuck somewhere and nowhere.”

We walk in silence for a moment before he speaks again. “You are not alone. I am always with you and will always be with you.”

“I know,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.

“You know the church is always open. It never closes,” he reminds me.

“I know,” I reply. “But right now, it feels like my own actions have closed off my access to the staircase.”

He stops and hugs me gently. “No, it hasn’t.”

I sigh deeply. “Maybe I’m just too ashamed to climb it.”

“My child,” he says, his voice kind but firm, “you need not be ashamed. The Heavenly Father and I hold nothing against you.”

“I know,” I say. “But with everything I’ve been feeling lately, accessing it doesn’t feel right.”

He smiles, gesturing to my jacket. “Yet here you are, wearing something that beautifully reflects your desire to connect with the Father and me, and your fascination with the celestial bodies He created.”

“There was a time I thought I was connecting... that I was connected,” I say, my voice faltering. “But I must’ve done something wrong.”

“You’ve done nothing wrong,” he assures me. “Keep praying, worshiping, and praising.”

“I thought I was doing that,” I say, tears streaming down my face. “But maybe I wasn’t. Am I supposed to be like my grandmother? She was devout but so out of touch. I know I’m supposed to live in this world without being of it, but I thought I was doing that too. Now, I’m not so sure.”

We walk in silence again, his presence comforting but not overwhelming. He doesn’t push me to talk or to listen—he knows I’m not ready. I feel trapped in my own mind, my own spirit. Somewhere but nowhere. Not free.

My thoughts drift to my dreams of being a writer. I don’t want to be confined to writing about myself and my struggles. I have fantastical stories inside me—stories infused with my renewed faith—but bringing them to life has been harder than I ever imagined. And because of that, I feel like I’m losing faith, not just in my ability to write, but in everything I’ve dreamed of.

I’ve argued with God, with His Son. I’ve cried, screamed silently, even begged to be taken off this Earth. And now here I am—walking this desert road, feeling spiritually lost. Limbo. Somewhere but nowhere.

“I know you don’t want to hear this,” Yeshua says gently. “But have faith.”

I don’t respond.

We continue walking. He hugs me again, like a caring older brother, and the silence between us feels heavy but necessary. What lies ahead for me remains unknown.

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