There is a stone in my shoe. A pebble? A grain of sand, more likely. I notice it as I walk to the car. I press my toe against it as I toss my purse and lunch bag on the front seat. I roll it back and forth as I fumble with my iPod in search of Peter Furler.
I am tired. Too tired, it seems, to slip off my black shoe and shake the pebble free. I have spent a week and a weekend dreaming. Hoping. The swift end of that hope has left me weary. And grateful. Do those two belong together? Weary gratitude?
I am not pregnant. I thought I was. I had myself (and The Len) convinced, and we strolled down a path familiar and not at the same time. It is a path somewhat overgrown from neglect. We held hands and in hushed tones (lest hope catch us in our foolishness) we marvelled at the very possibility.
Yeah. Not pregnant.
Let me catch you there as you prepare your fingers to post a comment with my name squished neatly between parentheses. I should like to be very clear that I’m not posting this for sympathy.
I want to encourage you instead, to keep dreaming. I want to suggest that dreaming is important because it softens and prepares the heart to be open to an alternative. Dreaming is crucial to the human heart – perhaps even more so to the Christian heart – because it makes an emphatic statement about who we believe God is: He is able and He is loving.
He is able to satisfy our deepest dreams. And in His love and infinite wisdom, sometimes He asks us to relinquish those dreams. Maybe to protect us. Maybe to show us something better. Maybe for a reason we’ll never know this side of grace.
I will not look back on this past week and cling only of the sorrow of a negative pregnancy test. (I may gripe a bit at how expensive they are, however…) I will cherish the chance to stand within a life loved deeply and dream of the alternative. I will linger over the memories of quiet conversations and misty eyes and know that it was right to dream. It was right to quietly confess that regardless of the direction our life was taking God is good.
There is a stone I keep in my shoe. Metaphorically speaking, you’ll understand. It is the grain of sand that reminds me that this life we love rose up miraculously to meet us on the path. It is the quiet niggling of truth that refuses to let us forget that peace, joy and wonder tore free from the ashes of grief and made something beautiful.
I’m on the highway now. The pebble has slipped out of reach and Peter Furler sings, ‘Glory to the King! The King of everything!’ Somewhere between home and this stretch of road that snakes elegantly beside a placid Lake Ontario my heart has become a little less weary. And abundantly more grateful.
What about you? Are you revelling in a dream right now?