I wake, frozen in fear. Sinister entities lurk in my bedroom. Two dark, faceless, humanoid creatures crawl toward me in slow motion. I try to turn away—can’t move. I try to scream—no voice. God, please help me! My terror invites the monsters closer. In the name of Jesus, leave! The shadow men sit on me, their faceless heads inches away. My body tenses. I barely breathe as their darkness invades. Why won’t Jesus save me?

I grew up in the Baptist church. We attended twice on Sundays, every Wednesday evening, and spent weeks at summer camps. As a child, I believed Jesus was my savior, because I invited him into my heart. My parents, grandparents, and everyone at church told me that without him, I would go to hell. I knew I didn’t want to spend eternity burning in fire without any water. Just to be sure, I got baptized. 

But I had questions. Why didn’t Jesus save me when I was bullied in fifth grade? Why would God create indigenous people in South America—or anywhere—who would never hear about Jesus, only to send them to hell? Did God create man in His image or did man create God in man’s image? The answers from my dad and the church never satisfied my curiosity.

When I was a teenager, Dad showed me A Thief in the Night movie series. People left behind after the rapture were forced to choose between the mark of the beast or the guillotine. I didn’t want to get my head chopped off, and I worried about my friends. I watched the movies with a non-Christian friend. “Promise me, if thousands of people disappear and you’re left behind, you’ll ask Jesus into your heart. And whatever you do, never accept the mark of the beast.” I begged her.

Sleep paralysis first struck me in my early twenties. I woke up from a nap, unable to move or scream. The living room appeared normal, except an invisible entity lurked behind me. Paralyzed, confused, and alone, I begged Jesus to help. The terrorizing episodes continued for over two decades. I’d fight to move my limbs, to shake my head, to scream. I pleaded to be saved. But no matter how much I implored Jesus, my monsters wouldn’t disappear until after I could move my body.

In high school, I often got caught sneaking out. My friends and I smoked pot and hung out in parks, woods, or the football field. One day, my exhausted dad sat me down in the living room of our double-wide. “Karrie, I love you, but you’re on a path to hell. I’d rather see the Lord take you before it’s too late for your soul.”

After graduation, I left home for the Navy. I spent hours talking about God on my ship’s smoke deck. Under the stars, cigarette in hand, I first learned about beliefs outside of fundamentalism. During those long conversations, I wrestled with my faith, questioning everything.

Then one evening, in the middle of the Atlantic, the entire sky and its reflection on the calm water erupted into stunning shades of orange and red. For the first time, I felt God within me. Trembling on the flight deck, I pressed my palms to my chest. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”

During REM sleep, our brains induce temporary paralysis to prevent us from acting out our dreams. Sleep paralysis occurs when consciousness wakes before the body. Most people don’t see shadowy figures. I always did. Sometimes they were floating blobs, but most of the time they were humanoid.

One leave from the ship, I drove home to Michigan. I flicked my cigarette out the window and my heart skipped a beat. The entire moonlit sky created a canvas where clouds and negative space formed an undeniable image of a man’s face. He had long hair and a beard. I’d seen that face my entire life in pictures. Jesus. 

I blinked. Looked away. Looked back. Lightly slapped my cheeks. No one was there to confirm my vision, but Jesus was in the sky, looking right at me. After minutes of disbelief, shock gave way to excitement. Then curiosity overcame me.

Why wasn’t Jesus smiling?

Intuition answered, fundamentalists misconstrued his message. Rather than wanting worship, Jesus was an example of how to awaken to our own divine nature. 

Growing up, I was taught that only Christians could be still and “know that I am God.” But my experience showed me the kingdom of heaven within a shipmate full of compassion, though he was Jewish. I had seen it in the petty officer who would give the shirt off his back, though he was Muslim. The kingdom of heaven was undeniably within my friend, even though he was gay. On the smoke deck, I often spoke with a man who meditated and, without ever asking Jesus to be his personal savior, knew God. 

As I pondered Jesus’s visit, his words spoke through me, “Ask, and you shall receive.”

After the navy, I studied World Religions. During a philosophy of religion class, as I sat at my desk, my professor paced the room and lectured, “God is Love. And Love is within you.” 

Time stopped, and peace filled me. My professor’s words woke a part of my sleeping soul. A God of love resonated and left no room for the jealous God of my fundamental upbringing. God is love. Unconditional love.

In past sleep paralysis episodes, one humanoid creature crawled toward me never touching me. Now, two of them are on top of me. Why does this keep happening? I muster all my energy but can’t move a finger. I want to scream but can’t get out a moan. Slowly, one of the wraiths leans in until its nose touches mine. 

I’ve. Had. Enough.

Get off me! You can’t be here! Leave me alone!

The creature backs away from my face. The apparitions turn to each other then back at me. Their energy shifts from menacing to curious. They disappear. For the first time, my monsters disappear before I can move my body.

I rarely experience sleep paralysis anymore, but when I do, there are no creatures haunting me. The power to save myself had always been within me. For over two decades, I begged Jesus to save me and thought he ignored me in my time of need. Instead, he was teaching me. God’s grace came in the form of self-empowerment.

~

All featured artwork by Stanisław Ignacy Witkiewic, (1885-1939)