Friday, April 17, 2009
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
DREAMING
"For God speaketh once, yea twice, yet man perceiveth it not. In a dream, in a vision of the night, when deep sleep falleth upon men, in slumberings upon the bed; then he openeth the ears of men, and sealeth their instruction, that He may withdraw man from His purpose, and hide pride from man. He keepeth back his soul from the pit, and his life from perishing by the sword." JOB 33:14-18 KJV
Some of my earliest memories are the old brick house with the iron pump where we'd stick our tongues in the wintertime. And 'curly hill,' my quiet place at the ripe age of three, where the grass was such a fascination--like lying down on a giant's head of sandy blonde hair. The smell of the earth and the air mingling and the adventure of life as a child allowed time to pass with innocency. It was then that the dreams began. The evening had drawn a close on the warm glow of the sun and the quiet was disturbed only by the gentle rustle of the lilacs as the fragrance romanced the imaginations of my heart. There, in the quiet of the night, the silence was broken by the tread of feet and the sting of underbrush across the narrow path. It was a jungle I found myself in, wet with the mist and rains that you would expect to find in a heavy forest. The evil that was in pursuit was not visible amidst the rush of emotion and the race forward. Its ominous presence clung to me like the dew. And as a child I fled in tears.
The cloud of thick foliage soon broke into a clearing and a rugged footbridge spanned before me. Its condition made it impassable for a child of three, but in times of crisis the impossibilities of life become positions for miracles. I stood on the edge of a chasm and looked out over the vast expanse of space. It dropped into the earth like a gaze into eternity. Such a glimpse causes us to hope for miracles, to hope when all is against all hope, to hope when there is nothing but hope, and when we finally in desperation hope in God, hope gives birth to faith.
The uncertain frame of the bridge served to hold the fragments of what was once a safe wooden walkway. Now all that remained were the broken and decayed pieces that had once formed the path to freedom. They held to the rusted frame with fragile fingers like a house of cards and a rush of tears made visibility poor. What does an innocent child do trapped in the midst of the torments of life? Flee for refuge? And to whom? Or what? I did not know. Only that the bridge was my only hope for survival and the destination on the other side held the promise of a brighter tomorrow.
Life is a crucible when we stand on the edge of eternity, when desperation locks our grasp on our hope for the future while it bolts us to the mercy of the remains of the past. Reaching out I began to reassemble the bridge with the ragged pieces of wood that held to the rusted frame. One piece and then another. Another. Pieces of hope? Yes. But, they were more than hope. They were the only hope.
The remnants fit together loosely like a puzzle on the pathway of time. Building. Fitting. Reaching out. Taking hold of what was within my own ability. Now I was over a chasm in the middle of my escape to tomorrow. There in the eternal moments that only dreams are made of hope ran out. Reaching out for the next grasp that would add yet another step on my path to freedom, the crawl became a fall and I awoke. Where did the journey end? Perhaps I would learn the next visit or the next. There would be many trips across that bridge over the span of the coming years. It was more than an expanse of space. It was an expanse of time and into eternity. There, in the middle of my feeble attempts to rebuild what was humanly impossible, there would come a divine intervention that comes in our moments of truth on the way to rock bottom. Sometimes it seems we would be better off to arrive, at last the fall would come to an end. But there in the midst of the breaking of emotions and certain destruction the fall would be eclipsed by the covers of a warm bed, feather-ticking comfort and the morning smells of coffee. Or maybe the midnight silence that leaves time to ponder the deeper meaning of life and the meaning of your dreams.
I was born the second of seven children, the only girl among the rough and tumble of six brothers. And the determination to overcome the daily combat that brothers can bring was only magnified by the rush of the night that raced through my mind. The dream would continue into adulthood, its meaning shrouded by the activity of life. Yet the mystery of it would be recalled from time to time in the occasional real-life encounters. There are many bridges in life, some we burn and some we build. Wisdom is a continual span that will carry us to our destiny and will guide us in all of the building and the burning.
.
Some of my earliest memories are the old brick house with the iron pump where we'd stick our tongues in the wintertime. And 'curly hill,' my quiet place at the ripe age of three, where the grass was such a fascination--like lying down on a giant's head of sandy blonde hair. The smell of the earth and the air mingling and the adventure of life as a child allowed time to pass with innocency. It was then that the dreams began. The evening had drawn a close on the warm glow of the sun and the quiet was disturbed only by the gentle rustle of the lilacs as the fragrance romanced the imaginations of my heart. There, in the quiet of the night, the silence was broken by the tread of feet and the sting of underbrush across the narrow path. It was a jungle I found myself in, wet with the mist and rains that you would expect to find in a heavy forest. The evil that was in pursuit was not visible amidst the rush of emotion and the race forward. Its ominous presence clung to me like the dew. And as a child I fled in tears.
The cloud of thick foliage soon broke into a clearing and a rugged footbridge spanned before me. Its condition made it impassable for a child of three, but in times of crisis the impossibilities of life become positions for miracles. I stood on the edge of a chasm and looked out over the vast expanse of space. It dropped into the earth like a gaze into eternity. Such a glimpse causes us to hope for miracles, to hope when all is against all hope, to hope when there is nothing but hope, and when we finally in desperation hope in God, hope gives birth to faith.
The uncertain frame of the bridge served to hold the fragments of what was once a safe wooden walkway. Now all that remained were the broken and decayed pieces that had once formed the path to freedom. They held to the rusted frame with fragile fingers like a house of cards and a rush of tears made visibility poor. What does an innocent child do trapped in the midst of the torments of life? Flee for refuge? And to whom? Or what? I did not know. Only that the bridge was my only hope for survival and the destination on the other side held the promise of a brighter tomorrow.
Life is a crucible when we stand on the edge of eternity, when desperation locks our grasp on our hope for the future while it bolts us to the mercy of the remains of the past. Reaching out I began to reassemble the bridge with the ragged pieces of wood that held to the rusted frame. One piece and then another. Another. Pieces of hope? Yes. But, they were more than hope. They were the only hope.
The remnants fit together loosely like a puzzle on the pathway of time. Building. Fitting. Reaching out. Taking hold of what was within my own ability. Now I was over a chasm in the middle of my escape to tomorrow. There in the eternal moments that only dreams are made of hope ran out. Reaching out for the next grasp that would add yet another step on my path to freedom, the crawl became a fall and I awoke. Where did the journey end? Perhaps I would learn the next visit or the next. There would be many trips across that bridge over the span of the coming years. It was more than an expanse of space. It was an expanse of time and into eternity. There, in the middle of my feeble attempts to rebuild what was humanly impossible, there would come a divine intervention that comes in our moments of truth on the way to rock bottom. Sometimes it seems we would be better off to arrive, at last the fall would come to an end. But there in the midst of the breaking of emotions and certain destruction the fall would be eclipsed by the covers of a warm bed, feather-ticking comfort and the morning smells of coffee. Or maybe the midnight silence that leaves time to ponder the deeper meaning of life and the meaning of your dreams.
I was born the second of seven children, the only girl among the rough and tumble of six brothers. And the determination to overcome the daily combat that brothers can bring was only magnified by the rush of the night that raced through my mind. The dream would continue into adulthood, its meaning shrouded by the activity of life. Yet the mystery of it would be recalled from time to time in the occasional real-life encounters. There are many bridges in life, some we burn and some we build. Wisdom is a continual span that will carry us to our destiny and will guide us in all of the building and the burning.
.
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