Dream of a Lifetime

Over the Thanksgiving break, I have been thinking about my dreams. Being single is never so agonizingly hopeful as it is during the holidays. I use this oxymoron because it is truly a bittersweet sensation, watching the grandness of life then praying it happens to you, too.

Last night, I told one of my best friends that as she makes a huge new change in her life, she should have a strong vision of what she wants with room to let God change that vision to accommodate whatever He wants. I now realize that this advice was only an echo of what the Lord has taught me lately.Throughout the last few years, I have simultaneously lost sight of my dreams and formed them. The things I dreamed for myself in high school are now vapors of the past, but the dreams that I let God spin around in my mind since then are more concrete now than ever, and I feel Him behind me, supporting me in my pursuit of them.

The holidays make me dream. It is sometimes a struggle to discern which dreams are mine and which are revelations of the will of God. Maybe there is a mixture in what I have now. I pray that only God's dreams for me come true, but I can only share that mixture of my dreams and leave it up to the future to decide which of those are meant to be reality.

The clearest picture I have to offer of my dreams are examples of those dreams in real people's lives, which I will dispense now.

For a paper on Louisa May Alcott, I have been reading her novel LITTLE MEN, about a boarding house for abandoned boys. The book is an account of brawls, runaways, boats, dogs, frogs, bruises, scrapes, dirt, and a whole lot of love. The house at Plumfield is a square old white house, but also a refuge for the weary. The mother and father make a wonderful combination for raising a dozen boys in a well-rounded atmosphere. Call me crazy, but that atmosphere is my dream.

My cousin, Cristy, has three rambunctious sons of various ages, and three equally rowdy nephews. She is beautiful. She is classic. She is strong, yet still smiles. She lives in a house that is a hundred years old and has redecorated it superbly. My family met at her place on Thanksgiving night. The only word I can think to describe this feeling I get from her home is bustling. Call me crazy, but this word is my dream.

Last night, I read a magazine article by a columnist/mother-of-four-boys. She had only an hour to pen a well-written article for a well-known magazine before she picked up her children from school, and still she said she could not wait until 3pm when they would be home again. The picture beside her words was of her with her four boys huddled close, a spouting water hose, and a wet spotted dog. Call me crazy, but this picture is my dream.

These dreams may seem insane to some. These dreams could be changed in an instant. But that's the point -- I don't want them to be too solid. I want God to have room to mold. But, I also realize that He has already molded them thus far, and they get closer to reality in each passing moment. These dreams are the middle of an unfinished project, so that what He is molding becomes clearer every day. Because of what He has already formed, this hope is not too unbearably agonizing. It's merely mesmerizing. I'm on the edge... I'm on my knees... anticipating.