Dream That Bomb-Threat Would Happen

I wrote in my last post about dreams.  I really believe that Christians today too readily dismiss the spiritual aspect of our walk with God, the spiritual aspect of existence.  By denying this portion of existence, we leave ourselves vulnerable in this very real war we are waging.  Not against people of course, but against spiritual powers.
In my last post, I posted about a warning dream of how the gas prices would rise.  I received another dream in fifth grade about something that took place not long after.
I had a dream about a clinic where I was being seen for problems with my wrists.  I played guitar, maybe bass (I forget if I started at the time), cello, played on the computer, and wrote at least four hand-written pages every day, giving myself tendonitis and maybe carpal tunnel syndrome.
I went through various kinds of testing to see what was wrong, and it was costing my parents a lot of money.  I felt really bad.  I had to follow up with the doctor, and if my symptoms had not improved, I would have to do more extensive testing.
I was in physical therapy, and I felt that if my doctor's appointment was moved a week or two out, I might be completely better.  But my follow up with the doctor was scheduled when it was.  My parents would have to shell out more money, and I would feel even worse.
I asked God to heal my wrists, or at least make some way for my visit to be moved.  I was not at an age where I would think to reschedule my appointment.  My parents made it for me, it was set in stone.
That night, I had a dream about the clinic building.  I did not understand what it meant, but I saw bright orange cones and pandemonium and smoke.  I wondered what it meant as my father drove me to the clinic the next day.
When we got to the clinic, there were bright orange cones blocking off the road.  There were emergency personnel everywhere it seemed.  There was pandemonium, or so it appeared to me.
My dad rolled down his window and spoke to a policeman.  The policeman told my father the clinic was closed because they had received a bomb threat.  My dad shrugged, what could be done?  As we drove away, I told my father about the dream.
He said, "Why didn't you tell me?  You would have saved me getting off work!"
I didn't realize it was an important dream, nor what it meant.
Needless to say, I didn't need to follow up with the doctor.  I completed my physical therapy, and proceeded to do the exercises I was shown clear into high school.  My wrists healed up, and I learned moderation and taking a break when symptoms start threatening to return.  And I learned an important lesson: to pay attention to my dreams.