Bridge over hell

Jeremy was raised in a run-of-the-mill evangelical church. Nothing out of the ordinary ever happened. Average sermons. Average music. No sensational miracles. No sensational scandals. 

When he turned 16, he discovered atheism. Surfing the web, he was confronted by slew of objections to Christianity. And since his own faith was just hereditary and intellectually rootless, he became an atheist overnight. 

Then he had a dream. In his dream there was a bridge across a canyon. Far below the bridge, at the bottom of the canyon flowed a river of fire, like molten lava. There was no way around the canyon. It ranged on either side as far as eye could see. 

Flames shot up from the river, licking the bottom of the bridge and flaring above it in sheets of fire. Almost like lanterns on the the rails of the bridge. It was dusk, but fire made the walls of the canyon gleam with flickering light. 

Across the canyon, he could dimly see a meadow with a stream, and verdant foothills above and beyond. But behind him all was rocky and dry. 

As he stood there, at one end of the bridge, a trickle of people–his age or older–came up from behind and passed him by. He watched them cross the bridge. 

But there was a troll at the other end of the bridge. A troll with malignant fiery eyes, who blocked their way. When they tried to force their way through, he picked them up and pitched them over the side of the bridge. They caught fire on the way down, so intense was the blazing river below. 

Jeremy was becoming thirstier by the minute. A raging, unbearable, overpowering thirst. More than anything he wanted to cross the bridge and drink from the stream, but he dare not contend with the troll. 

Then another man came from behind and passed him by. A bearded man in a robe with a nimbic aura. When he came to the troll, the man stretched out his hand, making the troll levitate and fall over the side of the bridge. 

He then motioned Jeremy to come. The bridge was hot underfoot, causing Jeremy to quicken his pace. After crossing over, he drank from the stream. The meadow was fragrant with scented wildflowers. He began to climb a footpath leading up the foothill, curious to see what was on the other side, when he awoke. 

He was back in bed, in his oh-so familiar bedroom. Indeed, he never left. Everything was ordinary again.

He washed and got dressed. As he pulled on his shirt, it had an usual fragrance, like wildflowers. 

After that, he started reading the Bible again. He read about Jesus, with his nimbic aura at the Transfiguration, and again, when Jesus appeared to John on Patmos. 

He shared his dream–if it was a dream–with people at church. And his classmates.