Sterling

Proverbs 28:19  “Without a vision, the people perish.”

It’s no secret that I’m a words girl. I love to read them, ponder them, listen to them, analyze them, question them, write them, rewrite them, and even let them rewrite me.  And yes, I’m that one who you’ll find recording ideas on the back of grocery receipts, gum wrappers, and on the inside of book covers so they don’t get away. A few days ago, these song lyrics caught my ear. “I’m getting older; I’m running out of dreams.” I jotted them down, tucked the pen and paper away and turned to work on  something else. But the words followed me. I couldn’t shake them. They kept rolling through my mind. Not the getting older part–the running out of dreams part.

Like every other middle-aged female, I watch the birthdays come and go. But truthfully, if I worry it’s more about dreams not realized than years ticking by. When those lyrics kept streaming through my head, it pulled me back to a time in my life where I wouldn’t say I was running out of dreams but that my dreams had died–or perhaps more accurately–they had no pulse. Lifeless.

I don’t know if you’ve ever been there, but knowing life, I would say you have. Big dreams end up getting crushed or sometimes the dreamer just stops dreaming. Either way, the end result is the same lonely, empty space. It’s a devastating place to land. I know.

I had believed the lie that no one would notice this place where I had landed. “I’ve got this,” I thought. I would just hide what I was feeling, and live out my days alone and lonely. But the weight of the isolation started to suffocate me . . . the me I was created to be was dying. Standing by my kitchen sink . . . in utter despair . . .  I let go of the dream that was slipping away. I felt like I couldn’t hold on any longer. With the only remaining ounce of faith I had left, I laid it all out: “If this mountain is going to move, it has to be You.”

Before I say anymore, I need to tell you something: when you whisper those words, be prepared. When your last drop of hope is mingled with a willing step of faith, be prepared. Your eye sight will change. You will see the miracle. Your soul will change. You will feel the miracle. Your heart will change. You will live the miracle. 

Just. Be. Ready.

For me, standing alone in my kitchen that day, with hot, scared-to-death tears soaking my cheeks, I  knew I was ready. I had to be. I knew I had nothing left as I whispered: I believe You can do the unbelievable.

That moment was my turning point. My “yes” was hard. Those months that followed were hard. Although I tried to avoid them, there were many days peppered with self-doubt and fear. What was I chasing? Why did I ever think this was a good idea? Would I ever see light again? I know now what I didn’t acknowledge then. Seeds placed in the ground are surrounded by complete darkness. From the surface, it looks like nothing is happening. To me, it felt like nothing was happening.

Yet faith.

Belief not based on proof. . . Faith.

I am that living proof that He can do the unbelievable. I have to tell you. I watched every teeny-tiny knife-edged leaf break through the soil. I saw every stem and stock embolden and strengthen as they reached upward. I saw fruit—glorious, succulent, mouth-watering fruit–ripen before my eyes. I’m living proof. It was my choice–a hard choice, but a deeply rewarding one.

  We can wither or ripen. Plant or walk away.

Me? I will never leave Hope out of the equation again. Daily it’s a workout but as I watch my spiritual muscles take shape, I ask only Him to dream for me.

Those dreams never run out.

This past week my mother celebrated 80 years of life. As I looked out over the beautiful venue that night, I didn’t see the weeks and months of planning and secret-keeping. I didn’t see the decorations or the lively guests. I didn’t see the delicious food or the decades-worth of photographs beautifully playing back her life. Instead I saw the fruit of her journey. I saw the people she loved and loves. I saw the lives she poured into out of the richness from her own. I saw her lifetime of dreams, abundant and heavy-on-the-vine. That night I saw a lavish harvest of dreams fulfilled surrounding my beautiful Mother.

“They should be rich in good works and generous to those in need, always being ready to share with others. By doing this they will be storing up their treasure as a good foundation for the future so that they may experience true life.”

— I Timothy 6:18b-19

The first time he grabbed my hand and said “Twirl!” I was sure he had lost his mind. Me? Twirl?  A girl who didn’t know the first thing about dancing. A girl who’s dance card had been blank most of her life. Dreamed of it, yes. Participated, rarely. Hard for most to believe, but home for me bore roots that, just a few generations prior, had started in the Amish faith. So dancing, well. . . it just wasn’t something we did.

“Twirl!” he said again. This time already in motion, starting the move that would spin me around and land me back in his arms, I twirled. Teetering and unsteady, I was sure I’d trip or stumble or hit the ground. . .but instead I laughed. I was spinning!

Wobbly foundations have always freaked me out. Add heights to that and it’s nothing short of a petrifying elixir. So last week, as the masons were laying our foundation block, I watched from the safe shores of solid ground as day by day our basement began to emerge. Carefully designed and aligned, the walls were perfect. I’m guessing Matt, already walking down the 2 X 10 board perched over the gap, thought I was following. In truth, I was studying the 10-foot drop between the basement and the ground around the house. I noticed Matt stopped mid-step on the bouncing plank:  Aren’t you coming?  I looked at the drop, the rickety wood, the slippery edge of the ground that held the end of the board, the sharp drop-off, and the  . .  the . . “No. I can’t,” I said, walking away. My heart was racing. I felt warm and a bit flushed. When I finally decided to go back–lifting my foot to see if I actually could do it–all I could see was the board giving way from the earth and me slipping, tottering, stumbling, and bumbling all the way to the muddy gravel below.

I know, I know . . . there was Matt with his hand stretched out . . . someone I trust with my entire being . . . and still, I turned and walked away.

Why didn’t I go?  Where was my faith? He had walked down the board, investigated the newly-laid block and then had come back up again. No problems. Why couldn’t I do it?

It made me wonder: Does God ever feel that way? His outstretched hand, waiting for me. What’s not to trust?  Unfortunately there have been times I’ve turned my back and walked away.  Does His heart break? Even when we’re promised a solid foundation beneath our quivering feet, why is it that we still doubt? Cowering in the shadows, giving into fear . . . only to lose out on something amazing.  A little too much like Peter, I suppose.

I’m sorry, Lord.

This week, with all of the block laid and the gap between the foundation and the block starting to fill, we were ready to try out the sub floor. Even though I knew I wouldn’t have to walk the rickety plank, I still hesitated. The tightly nailed-down particle board floor, with no evidence of the 10-foot high earthen hole below, was waiting. When I stepped up onto the newly-laid boards, feeling that each step was solid and safe, the excitement of standing in our new house was thrilling! The groundwork of our home was laid and now, everything else was going to be built on top of that. The foundation had to be nothing short of stable and secure–rugged and robust–in order to support what was to come. All those rooms we designed and redesigned, tweaked and calibrated, to produce the final blueprint–signed, sealed and delivered–were ready to be built.

On that day, a gentle wind began to blow through our unframed house. As we stood on the foundation of our future home, Matt took me into his arms.

And we danced.

“My heart is full.  We get to build a life together . . .”  Ecclesiastes 4:9

 25 March 2018

When I opened the container, I felt guilt. I ran my hands over and between the pillowy-folds of brightly-colored fabric. I picked up a neatly folded square and let it tumble open towards the floor. The smell of my daughter’s childhood wafted past. Again, guilt. Anyone looking over my shoulder would have seen yards and yards of beautiful fabric, but I saw outfits that were never sewn from fabric that was never cut.

I wish it wasn’t so, but well-meaning projects can turn difficult. Building anything is difficult. Schedules change, priorities rearrange, dreams shift. Things can happen that cause us to close the door and walk away.  What if we never return?

On July 30th of last year, I offered these words, with all of my heart, to my guy. “I vow to be your sanctuary. I vow to be your biggest champion.  I vow to build a platform beneath you, so you can soar.” Yet the year before, things had turned difficult. This project–this relationship–had somehow shifted. It felt impossible. Our boots were muddy and I wasn’t sure just scraping off the mud was the right thing to do. So, I took off my work boots, closed the door and walked away. It sounds easy but nothing was further from the truth.  It was the single most difficult decision I have ever made. God knew that for me to feel hope and then hopeless.  .  .was pure devastation.

Projects are hard. Relationships perhaps even harder. . .

Muddy. Arduous. Heavy. Hard. I felt defeated. Yet, I was willing to open the door . . .one tiny crack of a sliver . . . to make room for something. . . or Someone. . . to offer the miraculous.

  Yes, the miraculous.

Today I can say that I’m grateful beyond grateful for the miraculous. Re-opening that door was terrifying. Lifting my foot without any evidence of solid ground beneath it, was terrifying. Walking on a road where I couldn’t see beyond the curve, was terrifying. But  . . . I chose faith. . . and walked on through complete darkness.

Today my boots are muddy, yet I can’t think of anything more fulfilling. “We are building a life together.” Matthew + Shari = Together we build. A dream, a Promise, a marriage and now, a house.

The excavator has started pushing dirt around and uprooting trees. A huge burn pile is melting away the carcasses of what we no longer need. This morning, a few deer came by to inspect the progress. The muddy driveway–stone-filled and barely a path– is beautiful to me. It arcs up and over the slightest crest of a hill to the perfect spot we will call home.

Yesterday we carefully positioned ourselves where the great room will emerge in just a few short months.  As we looked out at all the barren trees scattered across the ravine, my heart filled. I was home. My eyes filled. We were home. I looked down at our mud-caked muck boots, as the tears dripped off my cheeks onto my hoodie.

Home.

Someday when I look back and think about the first swipe of the excavator’s huge bucket, I know I won’t be thinking about a backhoe. For me, the real ground-breaking was yesterday.

“This  is Your Home, Lord. May all who enter, see You. Feel You. Find You,” we prayed. With Matt’s arms wrapped around me, I’ve never felt more sure, secure or loved.

I met with my designer a few weeks ago.  “We’re not building a house,” I told him, “we’re building a home. There’s a difference.” He nodded; smiling.

He gets it.

Shari