I dreamed that I was a doctor during World War II, caring for a badly wounded soldier. His condition was grave, and I could not tell whether he would survive. The prognosis was very grim, and even if he lived, I knew his recovery would be long and difficult.

At one point, because we did not speak the same language, he looked at me and asked through hand signals, “How am I doing?”  I remember thinking there were three different ways I could answer him with the word “Good.”  The first was: “Good — you are in good hands, and I hope for the best,”  though I truly did not know whether he would survive. The second was: “Good — I believe you will survive, but the road ahead will be long and very hard.”  The third was: “Good — you are going to survive, recover, and eventually return to a full life.”

But I did not know which outcome would come. So I simply gave him a thumbs-up and said, “Good.”  Somehow, we both laughed. We understood how serious his condition was, yet there was still something hopeful in that small exchange. Afterward, I knew there was much more inside of me than I had been able to communicate with that one word and hand signal.

Later in the dream, I was with a small group of people who seemed to be friends or people who genuinely wanted to understand. Others were gathered around us, listening in. Looking back, it reminded me of how Jesus sometimes taught His disciples while the larger crowd listened.

Someone seemed to ask me about the wounded soldier and what I had said to him. So I began telling the story — the simple “Good” I had given him and the three possible meanings behind it. But as I spoke, I was not merely retelling what had happened. I was processing it. The introspection was happening as I talked. I began to understand what had really been inside that simple word:

I see you. I see your wounds and your suffering. I see something of the complexity of what has happened to your body and how it may affect your mind, heart, emotions, and future. I do not know your whole story, but I care about you. I am not merely treating an injured body. I am caring for a person.

In the dream I was reminded of the insight from the movie Patch Adams: “When you treat a patient, you win some, you lose some, period. When you treat a person, you win no matter the outcome.”  

This man might live or die. I did not know. But I could still see him, care for him, and, because I am a believer, pray for him. I believe in God’s power, so I pray with hope even when a situation appears hopeless. But I also know that I cannot predict what God will do. Sometimes He works miraculously; other times He does not answer in the way we desperately want Him to. Still, I know He hears me.

Sometimes suffering is so deep, complicated, and wrong that I do not even know how to pray. All I can do is groan or grunt because something is so terribly messed up. But I know even those groanings are heard by God. And if He hears me, I know He will answer in some way. There was hope in that. I was bringing this wounded man before not merely a powerful God, but a loving God. God is love. I belong to Him. I am His child. He walks with me and lives in me, and He hears me.

As a citizen of His kingdom, I realized that I could bring something of God’s kingdom into this man’s suffering — not because there was anything special about me, but because I belonged to God.

And as I continued explaining this to the people around me, the pieces came together: This was my hunger and thirst for righteousness. The words of Jesus, “Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness,”  gave language to something that had been inside me but that I had not been able to express. That was what had been inside my “Good.”

As I spoke to the group about righteousness, seeking the kingdom of God, and longing for what is wrong to be made right, I began to cry deeply. It was as though the meaning became clear to me while I was explaining it to everyone else. The pieces connected, and I suddenly felt the weight of what I was saying.

To hunger and thirst for righteousness is to deeply desire to see what is wrong to be made right — to ache for justice where there is injustice, healing where there is brokenness, and restoration where something has been destroyed. And ultimately, it is to seek — in agreement with Jesus — for the renewal of all things. It is to hunger for the world God has promised, where tears will be wiped away and pain and suffering will finally be done with.

But still in the dream itself, I realized that I do not hunger for this only as my own future destination. I hunger for it now, for others.

• I hunger for it for the people I encounter and minister to, for the people around me, for the place where I work and the home where I live. I hunger for it for my children and their spouses, their children and extended families, and for my neighbors and neighborhood.

• I hunger and thirst for the righteousness and kingdom of God to reach into the broken people and broken places around me. And that carries heavy, heavy weight in my heart. That was why I was crying.

Sometimes hungering and thirsting for righteousness means standing before something terribly broken and knowing I cannot make it right. Like that wounded soldier. I could not heal him. I could not predict whether he would live. I could not promise him a good outcome. But I could see him. I could care for him. I could pray and groan when prayer had no words. I could hunger for what was wrong to be made right. And I could bring him before God, knowing that God hears.

So there was something deeply hopeful contained in that simple word: “Good.”  Not because his circumstances were good or because I knew he would survive, but because he was seen, cared for, prayed for, and brought before God. Someone was hungering for his restoration.

As I processed all of this within the dream, through that almost Sermon-on-the-Mount-like conversation, I was left with something like this on the tip of my tongue—what I wanted to say to that wounded soldier before I woke up: 

“O wounded soldier, I do not know what your outcome will be. Your injuries are beyond what I can understand or repair. But I see you. I care for you. I pray for you. I groan over what has happened to you. I hunger to see what is wrong made right. And because I belong to God, I bring you before Him. There is a blessing upon you because of whose I am.”