Five days ago, I met Jesus. I know how that sounds, and trust me, I’ve been questioning my own sanity ever since. But I feel compelled to share this experience, hoping that by writing it down, I can process what happened.
It all began in a dream, but not just any dream. Usually, my dreams are chaotic fragments—memories mixing with random thoughts, faces I barely recognize, conversations that make no sense. This dream was different. It felt real in a way that defies explanation. I found myself sitting in an endless field of golden wheat, swaying gently in the breeze. The sky above was a breathtaking shade of blue, deeper than any photograph could capture.
And then, he appeared. Sitting across from me, it felt as if we had been conversing for hours. I recognized him immediately—not from paintings or movies, but from a deeper, intrinsic understanding. He looked younger than I expected, perhaps around 35, with kind eyes that seemed to hold the weight of every human emotion. His dark brown, slightly wavy hair framed a face that radiated warmth, and he wore a simple white tunic that seemed to glow with its own light.
“Elon,” he said, his voice enveloping me like a warm embrace after a long journey. “I’ve been waiting to talk with you.” My first instinct was to argue with the impossibility of it all. “This is just my subconscious,” I thought. “I’ve been stressed, working too much, not sleeping enough. My brain is creating this.”
He smiled, and in that moment, I felt a peace I hadn’t experienced in years. “Does it matter if it’s your subconscious or not? Listen to what I have to say. Judge the message, not the messenger.”
I wanted to wake up, to escape back to the familiar world of deadlines and problems I could solve with engineering and logic. But something kept me there, sitting in that impossible field, facing this impossible man. “Why me? Why now?” I asked.
“Because you’re listening,” he replied simply. “And because you’re ready to hear what I need to tell you.” As he spoke, the wheat around us rustled, and I noticed that each stalk seemed to whisper something different—not words exactly, but feelings: hope, love, forgiveness—things I had forgotten existed in the harsh reality of daily life.
“I don’t understand,” I admitted, though part of me was beginning to. “You will,” he assured me. “But first, you need to know something about yourself, about what you’ve been carrying all these years.”
The dream felt more real than my waking life. I could smell the earth beneath us, feel the warmth of the sun on my face, and hear the distant sound of water flowing somewhere beyond the field. Most importantly, I could feel his presence—comforting, not overwhelming or frightening, making me want to stay in that moment forever.
“What do you want from me?” I asked.
“Nothing,” he said. “I want to give you something. Something you’ve been searching for without knowing it.” That’s when I realized I was crying—not from sadness, but from a relief so profound it was almost painful, like I had been holding my breath for decades and finally remembered how to exhale. “I’m listening,” I whispered.
And that’s when he began to tell me the most important thing I’ve ever heard. “You’ve been carrying a weight that isn’t yours to bear,” he said, his eyes never leaving mine. “For years, you’ve believed that you have to fix everything, save everyone, solve every problem, but you’re drowning in your own expectations.”
I felt exposed, as if he could see straight through all the walls I had built around myself. “Someone has to do something,” I protested. “The world is broken. People are suffering. If I don’t act, who will?”
“Many people,” he said gently. “But you’ve forgotten that you’re not alone in this universe. You’ve forgotten that love is the most powerful force that exists, and it’s not something you have to create or manufacture. It already exists. It’s already flowing through everything.”
As he spoke, the field around us began to change. The wheat stalks started glowing softly, and I could see that each one was connected to all the others by threads of light. The sight was so beautiful it took my breath away. “Do you see?” he asked. “Everything is connected. Every person, every moment, every act of kindness. You’re not separate from it all. You’re part of it.”
I wanted to argue, to explain why this was too simple, too naive for the complexity of modern problems. But something in his presence made those arguments feel hollow. “I feel so alone sometimes,” I admitted, surprised by my own honesty. “Like I’m the only one who sees how urgent everything is, like I’m shouting into a void.”
“You’re not alone,” he said. And when he spoke those words, I felt them in my chest like a physical presence. “You’ve never been alone, but you’ve been looking in the wrong places for connection.”
He gestured to the field around us. “Every person you’ve ever met, every conversation you’ve had, every moment of laughter or tears—they’re all still here. They’re all still part of you. Love doesn’t disappear when someone walks away. It becomes part of the fabric of who you are.”
I thought about all the relationships I had lost, all the bridges I had burned in my pursuit of what I thought was important. “But I’ve hurt people,” I said. “I’ve been selfish, focused only on my goals. How can that be love?”
“Because you’re human,” he said simply. “And being human means making mistakes. But it also means having the capacity to grow, to change, to love more deeply than you ever thought possible.”
The threads of light connecting the wheat stalks began to pulse, and I realized they were beating like a heartbeat—not my heartbeat, but something bigger—the rhythm of existence itself. “Every person you’ve ever hurt is still connected to you,” Jesus continued. “Every apology you’ve never given, every word you wish you could take back—they’re all opportunities for love to grow stronger.”
I felt something shifting inside me, like a dam that had been holding back years of suppressed emotion was finally beginning to crack. “How do I fix it all?” I asked.
“You don’t,” he said. “You love. You start with yourself, with forgiveness for the man you’ve been, and then you let that love flow outward. You trust that love is more powerful than any technology, any innovation, any achievement.”
As the sun in the dream began to set, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple, I felt hopeful. “This is just the beginning,” Jesus said, reading my thoughts. “There’s so much more I want to show you.”
The next night, I found myself back in the field, but this time it was different. The wheat had been replaced by a vast mirror that stretched to the horizon, reflecting not just my image, but something deeper—every version of myself I had ever been and ever could be.
“Look,” Jesus said, appearing beside me as if he had always been there. “Tell me what you see.”
I stared into the mirror, and at first, all I saw was my reflection. But as I looked deeper, other faces began to appear: myself as a child, full of wonder and curiosity; myself as a young man, desperate to prove something to the world; and myself as I am now, tired and searching for meaning.
“I see someone who’s been trying so hard to be perfect that he forgot how to be human,” I said.
“And what else?”
Looking deeper, I saw moments I had forgotten—times when I had helped someone without expecting anything in return, conversations where I had listened instead of talked, moments of genuine joy and connection that had nothing to do with success or achievement.
“I see someone who’s capable of love,” I whispered. “Someone who’s been hiding behind his work because he’s afraid of being vulnerable.”
Jesus nodded. “Your father never told you he was proud of you, did he?”
The question hit me like a physical blow. I had never spoken about that to anyone, barely even admitted it to myself. “How did you know?”
“Because I know you,” he said simply. “And I know that you’ve been trying to earn love your entire life, not realizing that love isn’t something you earn; it’s something you are.”
The mirror began to show me memories I had buried—my father’s criticism, his disappointment, the way he made me feel like nothing I did was ever good enough. I saw how that had shaped me, how it had driven me to achieve more and more, always hoping that the next success would finally make me worthy of love.
“He was wrong,” Jesus said quietly. “You were worthy of love from the moment you were born. You’re worthy of love right now, exactly as you are.”
Tears streamed down my face. “But I’ve made so many mistakes. I’ve hurt people. I’ve been selfish and arrogant.”
“And human,” he finished. “Perfectly, beautifully human. Your mistakes don’t make you less worthy of love. They make you more human, more capable of compassion, more able to understand others who are struggling.”
The mirror began to show me something else—all the people I had encountered in my life and how my actions had affected them. Some interactions had caused pain, but others had brought joy, inspiration, and hope. I saw the complexity of human connection, how every relationship was a mixture of light and shadow.
“You see yourself as a problem to be solved,” Jesus said. “But you’re not a problem. You’re a person—a beloved person who has something unique to offer the world.”
“What if I can’t change?” I asked. “What if I’m too set in my ways, too damaged by my past?”
“Change isn’t about becoming someone else,” he said. “It’s about becoming more fully yourself—the self that existed before you learned to be afraid of love, before you learned to hide behind achievement.”
The mirror began to shift again, showing me possibilities—versions of myself that were free from the need to prove anything, versions that could love without fear, versions that could accept love without feeling unworthy.
“That’s who you really are,” Jesus said. “That’s who you’ve always been underneath all the fear and striving—someone capable of incredible love.”
I stared at my reflection, seeing myself not as a collection of successes and failures, but as a person worthy of love simply by existing. The realization was both terrifying and liberating. “What do I do with this?” I asked.
“You start by forgiving yourself,” he said. “And then you start living from love instead of fear.”
On the third night, I found myself in a garden unlike any place I had ever seen. Every plant, every flower, every tree seemed to be alive with its own light. The air was thick with the scent of jasmine and something else—something that smelled like peace itself. Jesus was sitting on a simple wooden bench, and when he saw me, he patted the space beside him.
“Come,” he said. “There’s something I want you to understand about forgiveness.”
I sat beside him, feeling the warmth of the wood beneath me, the gentle breeze carrying the sound of distant music. “I don’t know how to forgive myself,” I said without preamble. “Every time I try, I just remember all the ways I’ve failed.”
“That’s because you’re thinking about forgiveness wrong,” he said. “You think it’s about deserving it, about earning it through good behavior or sufficient remorse. But forgiveness isn’t about deserving. It’s about releasing.”
He pointed to a nearby vine that was wrapped around a dead tree, slowly strangling it. “See that vine? It’s holding on to that tree so tightly that it’s killing both of them. That’s what unforgiveness does. It strangles the life out of both the person who won’t forgive and the person who needs forgiveness.”
I watched as he stood and gently unwrapped the vine from the tree. Immediately, both plants began to look healthier, more vibrant. “Forgiveness isn’t about saying that wrong things were right,” he continued. “It’s about releasing the grip that those wrong things have on your heart.”
“But what about justice?” I asked. “What about consequences?”
“Justice and forgiveness can coexist,” he said. “In fact, they work best together. Justice without forgiveness becomes revenge. Forgiveness without justice becomes enabling. But when they work together, they create something beautiful—redemption.”
The garden around us began to shift, and I saw that every plant represented a different relationship in my life. Some were thriving, others were withered, and many were tangled up in vines of resentment and hurt. “Show me,” I said.
He led me to a particularly gnarled tree, its branches twisted with pain. “This is your relationship with your father,” he said. “You’ve been carrying his disappointment for so long that you’ve forgotten what your own dreams looked like.”
I touched the bark and suddenly felt all the years of trying to prove myself, all the achievements that felt hollow because they never earned his approval. “How do I forgive someone who never asked for forgiveness?”
“You start by understanding that his inability to love you the way you needed wasn’t about you,” Jesus said. “It was about his own wounds, his own struggles, his own inability to receive love. Hurt people hurt people, but they also have the capacity to heal.”
He placed his hand on the tree, and slowly the twisted branches began to straighten. The dead leaves fell away, and new growth began to appear. “Forgiveness doesn’t change the past,” he said, “but it changes how the past affects your future.”
We moved to another plant, this one representing my relationship with myself. It was the most damaged of all, covered in thorns and barely alive. “This is the hardest one,” I said.
“And the most important,” he replied. “You can’t love others more than you love yourself. You can’t forgive others more than you forgive yourself. Self-forgiveness is the foundation of all other forgiveness.”
He began to carefully remove the thorns, and with each one, I felt a weight lifting from my chest. “I’ve been so hard on myself,” I admitted. “I’ve held myself to impossible standards.”
“Because you learned that love was conditional,” he said. “But I’m here to tell you that love is unconditional. My love for you doesn’t depend on your performance, your achievements, your perfection. It depends on your existence. You exist. Therefore, you are loved.”
The plant began to bloom, producing flowers more beautiful than anything I had ever seen. “This is what happens when you release the need to be perfect,” Jesus said. “You become free to be who you really are.”
I looked around the garden, seeing all the relationships in my life with new eyes. Some needed tending, others needed pruning, and many needed the kind of forgiveness that only comes from understanding that we’re all struggling, all learning, all trying to find our way back to love.
“How do I maintain this?” I asked. “How do I keep from falling back into old patterns?”
“One day at a time,” he said. “One choice at a time. One moment of choosing love over fear, forgiveness over resentment, hope over despair.”
On the fourth night, I found myself standing beside a river that seemed to flow with liquid light. The water was so clear I could see all the way to the bottom, where schools of fish swam in perfect harmony. The sound of the flowing water was like music, like the universe singing to itself.
Jesus was already there, his feet dangling in the water, creating ripples that spread out in perfect circles. “Come,” he said. “Let me show you something about purpose.”
I sat beside him and immediately felt the water’s warmth against my skin. It was unlike any sensation I had ever experienced—not just physical warmth, but emotional, spiritual warmth that seemed to reach into the deepest parts of my being.
“You’ve been trying so hard to find your purpose,” he said, “that you’ve missed the fact that you already have one. You’ve always had one.”
“But I feel so lost sometimes,” I confessed. “Like I’m running in circles, chasing things that don’t really matter.”
“That’s because you’ve been looking for purpose in the wrong places,” he said. “You’ve been looking for it in achievements, in recognition, in changing the world. But purpose isn’t something you do. It’s something you are.”
He cupped some of the flowing water in his hands, and I watched as it sparkled like diamonds. “See this water? It doesn’t try to be water. It doesn’t strive to be meaningful. It simply flows, and in flowing, it gives life to everything it touches.”
I watched the water run through his fingers, understanding beginning to dawn. “You’re saying my purpose is just to be myself.”
“Your purpose is to love,” he said simply—to love yourself, to love others, to love the world you live in. Everything else—your work, your relationships, your dreams—they’re all just different ways of expressing that love.
The river began to show me images, like a movie playing on its surface. I saw moments from my life where I had acted from love instead of fear, where I had connected with others not for what I could gain, but for the simple joy of connection. Those moments glowed brighter than anything else.
“But how do I know if I’m loving correctly?” I asked. “How do I know if I’m making the right choices?”
“Listen to your heart,” he said. “Not your mind, not your fears, not your ambitions. Your heart. It always knows the difference between love and fear.”
He pointed to the fish swimming in the river. “See how they move together? They’re not trying to be in harmony. They’re naturally in harmony because they’re connected to the same source. When you live from love, you’re connected to that same source.”
I watched the fish, marveling at their effortless coordination. “It looks so easy for them.”
“It can be easy for you, too,” he said. “When you stop fighting the current and start flowing with it, when you stop trying to control everything and start trusting that you’re exactly where you need to be.”
The water around my feet began to glow brighter, and I felt a sense of peace deeper than anything I had ever experienced. “What if I make mistakes?”
“You will make mistakes,” he said. “Everyone does. But mistakes made from love are different from mistakes made from fear. They’re learning opportunities, not failures.”
I thought about all the decisions I had made in my life, all the paths I had chosen. Some had led to success, others to failure. But now I was beginning to see that the outcomes mattered less than the intention behind them.
“I want to live from love,” I said. “But I don’t know how to change habits that have been with me for decades.”
“Start small,” he advised.
