Dreams are strange doorways. Sometimes they whisper. Sometimes they shake us awake with the weight of something deeper. Last night, I had a dream that felt like both.

I was standing by my window here in the U.S., looking out at a familiar quiet night. I picked up my phone, intending to take a picture of the horizon. The sky was soft and still, the streetlamps casting their usual golden glow.

But as I zoomed in, something unexpected began to emerge. A shape in the distance—something not from this side of the world. My heart skipped. I kept zooming in, and then I saw it: the Cave Church in Mokattam, Cairo.

Yes—that Cave Church. The one carved into the stone, tucked into the cliffs, echoing with stories of faith and resilience. Somehow, impossibly, I could see it through my window in America. As if the boundaries between continents had vanished.

And then, moving gently through the rows of chairs inside the church, there was a deer. Quiet. Graceful. Out of place, yet perfectly at home. It didn’t run. It simply wandered—an ancient symbol of gentleness walking through sacred ground.

I took a photo. It felt important, like proof of something my soul already knew but my mind was just beginning to grasp.

I posted it with the words:

“Egypt is not that far. I can see it from here.”

When I woke up, those words lingered.

This wasn’t just a dream about seeing a place I love. It was a message, a spiritual nudge. It reminded me that distance doesn’t erase belonging. That even when we move thousands of miles away, the soul carries its homeland with it.

Egypt still lives in me.

In my memories.

In my prayers.

In the way I sit with silence.

In the rhythm of my creative work.

And sometimes, in the sacred spaces between sleep and wakefulness, Egypt visits me.

Maybe the deer was more than just a symbol. Maybe it was grace—appearing gently, quietly—to remind me that I am still connected. That my roots run deep, and the sacred places I’ve walked before are never out of reach.

Because sometimes, the places that made us don’t disappear.

They bend through space and time to remind us:

“You are still one of us.”