Dreams of Hell: Battling Satan, Trusting God

In the quiet solitude of my 40s, dreams have always been just that—dreams. Fleeting whispers of imagination, dismissed with the dawn. I’ve always kept my dreams to myself. Talking about them feels… foolish. People would think I’m crazy. Like those biblical prophets, Ezekiel rambling about wheels within wheels, or Daniel interpreting Nebuchadnezzar's nightmares. They were ridiculed, seen as madmen touched by something dangerous. I understand why. Who would believe me if I said I’d just spent the night warring as a fearless queen, commanding armies of mythical beasts and teleporting across alien landscapes?

It all feels so real in the moment, so vivid, so… divinely orchestrated. I know, deep down, that God shows me things. But putting it into words? Impossible. It leaves me feeling exposed, vulnerable to disbelief and mockery. Yet, this last one… this dream was different. This one wasn't just an adventure; it was a lesson, a trial, a training ground. And the proof came knocking on my door. I, a humble neighbor and community glue, found myself in a hellish realm. This place was unlike anything I had ever known, yet strangely familiar.

I had just moved to Helen, Georgia. Boxes were everywhere, and my bed hadn’t arrived yet. That first night, I was sleeping on a glorified foam egg crate on the hard floor. It was pathetic. It barely offered any comfort, but I was exhausted. I drifted off, only to be ripped awake into a reality far harsher than any hard floor. That night, I woke up – or rather, I woke into – a nightmare.

“What is this place?!” The words tore from my throat, a desperate cry lost in a cacophony of suffering. I looked around, and the sheer horror of it threatened to shatter my sanity. It was the sound, first, that assaulted me. An endless, layered tapestry of moans, cries, and whimpers, each pitched with a different agony. A low, constant moan that vibrated in my bones. Men, women, children – all woven together into a soul-crushing symphony of despair. High-pitched screams of torment bled into low, guttural moans of resignation. It was deafening, overwhelming, a sonic assault that clawed at my insides and brought tears to my eyes. Even now, just remembering it, the echoes of that sorrow still linger.

Then came the smell. Imagine the most putrid things you can conjure – rotting flesh, the sickly sweetness of decay, the acrid tang of burning chemicals, the stale, fetid breath of the unwashed masses. It was a cocktail of rotting flesh, burnt metal, and something else, something indefinable but deeply unsettling. Now concentrate them all into a single, suffocating miasma. It was the smell of death and hopelessness, amplified a thousandfold. My stomach churned, and I fought the urge to vomit.

Finally, the sight – a panorama of desolation painted in shades of red, grey, and black. The oceans themselves were lifeless, bubbling with vile compounds. The air shimmered with noxious fumes, as if the world was on fire. A toxic, orange-red sky, blotted out by a massive, metallic disk that choked out the sun. Below, a cityscape ravaged beyond recognition. Buildings crumbled, skeletal remains of what might have been skyscrapers, clawing at the poisoned sky. Twisted metal, shattered concrete, and piles of rubble stretched as far as the eye could see. And then there were the people, or what was left of them. The humans were empty shells, all skin and bones with grey, lifeless skin. Millions of them, shuffling through the ruins like hollowed-out automatons. The scene was a great metropolis, reminiscent of pre-war New York, but destroyed by a nuclear apocalypse. They rummaged through the debris, seeking what? There was nothing to find. No life, no hope, no progress. Just endless, agonizing existence. These weren't people; they were husks, lost souls scavenging through the ruins, trapped in an eternal loop of despair.

This was Hell. Not the fire-and-brimstone of sermons, but something far more terrifying – a world of our own making.

The reality of where I was slammed into me, and I sank to my knees, sobbing. “Why am I here? I’ve been trying so hard! I’ve been good!” I begged God to get me out. I’d never felt so utterly alone, so completely and desperately lost.

Then, a presence appeared on my right. A man, yet unmistakably not a man. He wasn't the winged cherub of paintings; this was a man, tall and imposing. His clothes were simple, but he bore an aura of quiet authority. Everything about him commanded respect. His face was a veiled blur, like trying to grasp a fading memory. An angel. Or at least, I knew he was a messenger.

“You have not been sent to Hell as a punishment,” the angel’s voice resonated, a deep, calming balm in the sea of despair. Relief washed over me, so profound it nearly buckled my knees. “Then why am I here?” I asked, my voice trembling.

He pointed past me, his arm outstretched with unwavering command. “You are to slay that.”

I turned, my heart seizing in my chest. A figure sat a short distance away, a hulking, grotesque being encompassing malevolence. It was male, but devoid of any humanity. He was all muscle and hate, radiating a palpable chilling aura of pride and cruelty. His skin was red, his face locked in a permanent scowl. No wings, no genitals, only the stark, terrifying power of pure, unadulterated evil. His hands and feet were tipped with long, razor-sharp claws. And his eyes… his eyes burned with an ancient, unholy rage. He sat there, watching me, a predatory grin twisting his lips, as if he knew he was going to kill me.

Panic clawed at me. I spun back to the angel, who now held a long sword in his hands, its blade gleaming with celestial light. “You are to use this,” he commanded.

I, the woman who dreamt of leading armies, of commanding stars, of teleporting through dimensions, was now terrified. I was a warrior in my dreams, but in this moment, I felt like a frightened child.

“But… but I’m not ready!” I stuttered. “I have no training! I don’t know how.”

The angel’s gaze remained unwavering. “God will protect you. Have faith. No harm will come to you that He does not allow.” His words echoed the ancient promises of scripture, reminding me of Psalm 91:4, “He will cover you with his feathers, and under his wings you will find refuge; his faithfulness will be your shield and rampart.” I knew the truth of those words, yet doubt still clung to me like a shroud.

Then, I saw him. Standing to my left, my neighbor. My real neighbor from Helen, Georgia. He lived just two doors down. What was he doing here? I never dreamt of people I knew in real life. Yet here he was, a familiar anchor in this nightmare landscape. I felt an inexplicable compulsion.

Nervously, I turned to him, the warrior queen reduced to a trembling supplicant. "Will you… will you pray over my sword?"

It was absurd. I never asked for prayers in my dreams. I was fierce, unyielding. Yet, here I was, humbled, begging my neighbor for spiritual intervention. Even in the dream, I knew it was strange, but I couldn't resist the urge.

He nodded, his face etched with a solemn understanding that transcended the dream. He took the sword, his thin, calloused hands wrapping around the hilt. He closed his eyes, and a silent prayer passed between him and the heavens.

When he returned the sword, I felt a subtle shift, a renewed sense of purpose – tempered by a wave of dread. He nodded towards the hill. I knew what I had to do.

With a deep breath, I started climbing down a hill of rubble toward the Lord of Hell. It was a struggle, the sword heavy in my hand as I scrambled over broken bricks and twisted metal.. Each step was agony. The sword, once a symbol of power, now felt like a leaden weight. The jagged, uneven terrain threatened to trip me at every turn. I slipped and stumbled, the weight of the sword and the looming confrontation pressing down on me.

Finally, I reached the base of the stairs. They led to what was once a Gothic church, now remnants of human architecture greatness sitting above all the other rubble in Hell. The best thing in the landscape of disheartened dreams, but still with missing windows, and entire walls torn off. Shattered walls gaped like empty eye sockets as large chunks of concrete were missing from the structure that once stood in glory.

Perched at the top of the stairs, on a concrete throne, sat the Lord of Hell. Alone. No generals, no advisors, no legions cheering him on. Just him, in all his prideful, terrifying glory. He surveyed his kingdom of despair, a desolate monarch ruling over a kingdom of shattered dreams.

As I began to ascend the stairs, I could feel his gaze burning into me. He radiated an aura of utter self-assurance, a belief in his own invincibility. The epitome of evil, a creature born of pride and fueled by hatred.

With each step, my fear intensified. My heart hammered against my ribs. The sword felt impossibly heavy, and I felt like a frightened child facing a monster of unimaginable power.

He started to stand as I reached the halfway point. The stairs felt like they were a mile high. He was five times my size. And something about him was different. I knew, I knew, deep in my soul, that he was going to kill me. He was the scariest thing I'd ever seen.

I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and reminded myself, "God has your back".

Then, he began to descend, each step echoing with menacing finality. He was coming for me.

I steeled myself, took a final bracing breath, and raised the sword.

And then, I woke up.

I bolted upright, gasping for air, my heart still pounding like a drum. I shook my boyfriend awake, babbling about the dream, the horror, the angel, and the inexplicable presence of our neighbor. He listened patiently, his expression a mixture of concern and amusement. He’d seen me on plenty of spiritual journeys before, but this one seemed… intense.

The next morning, I felt an undeniable urge to talk to the neighbor’s family. "Go tell your neighbors about the dream," a commanding voice whispered in my head.

I found my neighbor's daughter, who was visiting from Atlanta with her mother and her new baby. I told the daughter, "I had the craziest dream and your dad was in it!" Swallowing my fear of ridicule, I told her everything. The hellscape, the angel, the Lord of Hell. I recounted the details, emphasizing the part where I had asked her father to pray over my sword. When I finished, the daughter's eyes were wide with shock.

"My daddy used to be a pastor!"

Used to be. That explained it all. The drinking, the secular life, the distance from his family. He had fallen from grace, carrying the weight of his broken vows. I was shocked, I had no idea that my neighbor was once a pastor. It was something that seemed impossible given his current lifestyle which was more or less a stereotypical meme of the character he turned out to be.

That moment changed everything. His daughters one sentence was the realest thing I had experienced in a very long time. It confirmed to both of us that my dream was real. The dream wasn’t just a random figment of my imagination. It was a message, a call to action. It was training for a battle I didn't even know I was fighting. God had shown me a glimpse of the darkness, a warning of what could be, and He had equipped me to confront it. It brought me closer to my neighbor. It helped him to slowly turn back to God.

The memory of hell lingered, a place so dreadful I wouldn't wish it upon my worst enemy. It wasn't just the desolation that frightened me but the realization of its plausibility. The sun, obscured by that metal disk, was a detail I couldn't shake. Months later, I stumbled upon an article discussing the development of a "sunshade" at the Sun-Earth L1 Lagrange point, proposed by influential leaders and billionaires as a solution to climate change. Names like Bill Gates and Elon Musk were tossed around, each wanting to cloak the sun in a misguided attempt to "progress."

The irony wasn't lost on me. Humanity, in its arrogance, striving to play God, potentially creating its own hell on Earth. My dream was not just a cautionary tale but a glimpse into a possible future—a warning that our efforts to control the climate could lead us to destruction.

The experience left me shaken, yes, but also strangely empowered. I still don't talk about my dreams much, but I no longer dismiss them as mere figments of my imagination. I understand that God uses dreams to prepare us, to strengthen us, to train us for battles we may not even know we are facing.

Now, when fear threatens to overwhelm me, when I feel inadequate and unprepared, I remember that dream. I remember the angel’s words, the neighbor’s prayer, and the chilling presence of evil. And I remember that I am not alone. God is with me, sharpening my spirit, preparing me for whatever lies ahead.

The dream was a hard lesson, but a true one. It taught me that our trials are not meant to break us, but to mold us into the warriors God intends us to be. It taught me to trust in His plan, even when it seems terrifying and impossible. It was there I learned my dreams are not just dreams, but training.

As Paul wrote in 2 Timothy 1:7, "For God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of a sound mind." This verse resonates deeply because it reminds me that the fear I felt in that dream, the fear that often paralyzes me in real life, is not from God. He has given me the power to face any challenge, the love to guide my actions, and the sound mind to discern His will. Keeping this verse close to my heart helps me to remember that I am not defined by my fear, but by the strength and grace that God provides. It encourages me to step out in faith, even when I feel inadequate, knowing that He is always with me, guiding and protecting me.

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AUTHOR: Sarah Lester

LOCATION: United States