I’ve been having the same kind of dream for a few years now. Strange dreams, not dramatic, not wild—just persistent. They always take place in the same setting: Jack in the Box, the very first job I ever had. Sometimes, oddly, my boss from another job is there. But most of the time, it’s just me—back behind the counter, back in uniform. I’m not watching or remembering. I’m working.

And the dreams don’t feel symbolic. They feel real. Like something else is going on—like I’m catching glimpses of another version of myself. The one who never left the job. The one who stayed.

That “other self” feels rooted. Peaceful. Grounded. He doesn’t resent the job, or see it as beneath him. He seems to genuinely enjoy it. I think about him sometimes after I wake up. I wonder if he’s a parallel version of me. A version who chose simplicity and stuck with it. A version that maybe—just maybe—God is now calling me to understand.

Because if I’m being honest, I’ve come to believe that’s what this is.
These dreams aren’t just strange memories from the past.
They’re messages.
And I believe they’re from God.

That’s what’s so odd about all of this. If you’d told me even a year ago that I would apply to work at Jack in the Box again, I would have laughed. I left when I was twenty-four, and I left with resentment. It was a hard job. It felt like I was stuck, like I was wasting time. I wasn’t grateful for it then. But I’m not the same man now.

If I go back today, it will be with a completely different heart. A different purpose. Different will. Different desire.

And I already have.

A few days ago, I applied. Quietly. Without telling many people. I wasn’t even sure why, other than this persistent, prayerful pull I couldn’t ignore. The dreams wouldn’t let go. Something deep inside me said: “Do it.”

Then something happened that shook me.

I was standing in my bedroom when I saw something on the floor. Just sitting there, like it had been placed with intention. I picked it up.

It was my original Jack in the Box nametag.
From when I was sixteen.
Same blue plastic. Same white tape. My name still there: BRIAN.

I hadn’t seen it in over three decades. Thirty-six years. I didn’t even know I still had it. How it survived every move, every box, every purge—I have no idea. I don’t remember keeping it. But there it was. Not hidden. Not buried. Just… there.

And I froze.

Because I had already applied. That moment wasn’t what prompted me to go back—it was what confirmed it. Intensely. Unmistakably. Like God reached through the veil and said, “Yes. This is the way.”

I just stood there staring at it, holding it in my hand. Not even sure what to think. How do you explain something like that? How does something that personal, that specific, resurface at that exact moment—after being invisible for nearly four decades?

I thought: “That has to be a sign. What are the chances of that happening now?”

I took it as confirmation. No—I received it as confirmation.
This isn’t just something I’m choosing.
It’s something I’m being called into.

I don’t know what will happen next. I haven’t heard back from the manager yet. I’ve got no big expectations. Just an open heart. I’ll pray before the interview, if and when it comes. I’ll listen.

Because I think the dreams were right.
Because I think the Brian who stayed—the one who never stopped showing up—still exists.
And I want to meet him again.
Not just in a dream, but with my hands working, my name on my chest, and my heart fully present.

It’s not about going back.

It’s about coming full circle.