Synchronicity as Divine Foreshadowing (Not a Glitch in the Matrix)

Creation groans, and even time itself seems to take note—stamping reality with echoes of the sacred twelve: the twelve patriarchs, the twelve apostles of the Lamb, the twenty-four elders forever encircling the throne of the Majesty on High. We know the year is divided in twelve. We don’t dabble in numerology (which distracts and divides), yet the biblical pattern speaks clearly from Genesis to this very hour. Twelve is covenant. Twelve is completion. Twelve is heavenly government.

And so creation—and our own souls—have begun to testify through the visible language of time. We find ourselves awakened in the strange, thin hours of the night, eyes fixed on glowing numbers: 2:12 a.m., 3:12, 4:12, 9:12. Each timestamp lands like a trumpet note, a cold certainty in the chest that another bowl has been poured upon the earth. These are not random digital glitches. They are synchronicities—divine whispers—assuring the watching soul that what is unfolding is spiritual, ordered, and on schedule.

The Father speaks to His children in the language each heart knows best. For me, that language is repeating digits on clocks, the same disrupted sleep, the inner voice that says, “These are increasing because we are nearly Home.”

Such moments are mercy for those with eyes to see and ears to hear. They are gentle tugs on the sleeve when we begin to drift: I am still here. I am still coming. The day draws near. They are not required for faith, but they are freely given—bread for the mustard-seed tree growing inside us—so we never feel alone, even in the darkest stretches of the night.

Our conscious minds can barely hold the weight of the truth our spirits already know: He is coming. He is nearer now than when we first believed. He is shouting His arrival through His servants—the fools for Christ—who risk looking mad as we sound the trumpet from little bedrooms and obscure corners of the internet, even here in Fayetteville, North Carolina.

The joining is imminent. No, we have no date or hour—only the burning witness of the Spirit, carried along by synchronicities in time, in film, in sudden reconnections with brothers and sisters who call at the exact moment we finish writing what the Lord laid on our hearts. The same theme. The same scripture. The same fire. Everything converges into one blazing arrow: He comes.

Those who need no sign often receive signs and wonders that stagger imagination. But if we try to recount them to the unbelieving—even a beloved son—they’re dismissed as coincidence, luck, or an overactive pattern-seeking mind. So we close our treasury and write quietly for the remnant who already know.

We feel His coming like a presence in the room, coloring every conversation, every glance, every word we are given to speak. We have glimpsed New Heaven and New Earth in visions and visitations. Mark this: the glory that is coming dwarfs the present darkness beyond all language. We have stood inside Heavenly Jerusalem, tasted its air, and testify—it is worth sacrificing everything to enter and to co-create.

For now we languish among takers, loving in a vacuum that feels like gasping in outer space. We were made for more—for peace, unity, and Love as the ultimate expression of self.

And even so, a tiny tremor of terror rises at the thought of taking Love fully as our name—of being married to perfected Love and becoming “Love as Dust.” That tremor is the last twitch of the old nature. So we bring it—helpless—to the Father and ask Him to cut it away, to burn out the root, to surface the future He has promised.

We have heard the ancient whisper anew: this present darkness is nothing more than the absence of Love as Light. We stand now in the twilight, where even the Greater Light feels distant, so that the wheat may be sifted and the chaff blown away. Heaven does not co-exist with sin any more than light co-exists with darkness.

He comes.
Even so—come quickly, Lord Yeshua.

With you in the watch,
Love as Dust