Episode 14: Iran Is Making Secret Plans for War

Over the years, Holy Spirit showed me several dreams about Iran planning to attack the president and Washington DC and to start war. And I’ve learned of two demonic plots agains the US—both the same—to nuke Washington DC and start war with Iran. 

Dream #1 (March 26, 2013):  A meeting is underway in a small room with white-painted walls, expensive paintings in gold frames and a high-quality table. 

The attendant parties stand, smiling, and shake hands. They add the appropriate nods and condensed affirmations. Then one group exits the door behind them on their side of the table. The other group, a man and woman neatly dressed exit a door opposite. 

Once outside, the stop at a small table and adjust their belongings. 

The woman says, “I don’t think they suspect our real plan.” 

“No,” says the man. “Not at all.” 

The two are Iranians. 

Dream #2 (March 27, 2103): An empty bazaar rests under cloak of night. In the sky, wispy clouds cruise across a three-quarter moon. Rows and rows of assorted ramshackle sellers’ tables made of panel boards and assorted worn components pass by as a camera view passes the dirt aisles.

At the end of the long pan, the camera stops before two men at the far side of the bazaar. They share the thick brown hair and facial features of the Persian people. One puts a cigarette to his lips and takes a drag. As he exhales smoke, the second man says, “So then it looks like there will be no war.” 

The second man slowly pulls a second drag and exhales just as relaxed. “No,” he says. “My brother is high in the military and he says they are planning something.” 

Dream #3 (December 28, 2022): On January 4th, Trump ordered the elimination of international terrorist, General Qasem Soleimani. Almost four weeks later, I received the following four scenes: 

Scene 1: President Trump stands in a city square, tall buildings on all sides. 

The scene changes to a meeting of his security team. They sit at a table strewn with city maps covered in large red circles with lines and dashed lines drawn on them. 

“We’ve extended the radius beyond what we normally secure,” one suited man says. “And we’ve secured and planned for everything.” 

Scene 2: A tall man with dark hair stands in front of two men with Persian features, well dressed in traditional garb and turbans. 

“I can’t find a line of sight,” the tall man says. “It’s impossible.” 

The two turbaned men look at one another. Fear crosses their faces. 

Scene 3: Three top-ranking Iranian men go into hiding. One lesser person also does this. The scene represents them as pus-yellow and dirt-brown blobs shaped like a classic flying saucer shape. 

Scene 4: The tall sniper lives in a kind of community rental. People have personal rooms. But toilets and showers are in a common space off a long hall. 

One night, someone breaks into a woman’s room. The following morning, several residents stand near the entrance to the building, near the bottom of a staircase. 

“He tried to take my purse and jewelry box,” a short squat woman says. “But I fought him off in the dark. He came in through the window and went out that way, too, with nothin’ to show for his troubles.” 

The entrance opens and the tall man enters. As he steps out of the shadows of the foyer, the hall light crosses his face. 

The storyteller looks at him. “How’d you get that bruise on your cheek?” 

The man touches his cheek but freezes in place. 

“Now I recall,” says the stout woman. “I hit that burglar with my lamp. Gave him a good what for in the face.” 

The man’s right foot slides back an inch. 

In a clamor of shouts, the hallway residents jump him. 

“Get him.” 

“Take him down.” 

“Hold his arms.” 

“Lock the doors.”

They tussle and three of them grab hold of his arms and clothing. 

“You don’t understand what you’re doing,” the tall man says. “I’m an assassin from Armenia. I kill people for a living. But you don’t have to worry. I’m no threat to little people.” 

Scene 5: A woman staff worker cleans inside a room (ostensibly) vacated by the Armenian. She grimaces when looking at the jacuzzi tub. The width of a man, a field of back hair sticks to the wall of the tub. She sprays it with the detachable shower head, but it has no effect.

Dream #4 (Sometime after 2004): I visit a field hospital in a desert environment. I sit with soldiers laying in beds. One of them is a blonde I served with in Kuwait (2003-04). 

The eyes of the men and women in the beds are red and blood shot. I sit bedside to the woman I know. 

“I heard,” I say, “that Iranian soldiers fight here against us. Is this true?” 

“Yes,” she says. “We’ve engaged them on multiple occasions.” 

“Back in the states, nobody is reporting this. Nobody knows.” 

The Iranians use a