Death of dreams.

From the time I was a little girl, I've had dreams for my life--some of them small and insignificant, some lofty and grand, some selfish, some noble.  The details of those dreams have changed as I've matured and life has led me in various directions, but the ones dearest to my heart have remained intact.  During my weakest moments, I turn to those dreams and strengthen my feeble grip on them as if somehow they can sustain me.  Somewhere along the way, I got it in my head that those must be God's dreams for me too.

Then a few days ago--I can't even remember who I was talking to or what she said--but her words triggered this weighty realization that the dream I have held most tightly to for as long as I can remember may be the one dream I have to let go of.  If God heals me, then that dream is a possibility, but He may never choose to heal me; and if he doesn't, then I will likely have to let that cherished dream fall through my fingers.

I grieved over that reality.  I wept over the death of the life I always thought I would have.

But then I did the scariest thing I have ever done: I surrendered.  I opened my clenched fists that had been protecting those sacred dreams and emptied them before my Father.  What I could do with those dreams on my best day would be like the mud pies a child offers his mother.  I don't want to offer God mud pies because I'm selfishly holding on to childish dreams.  My prayer in that moment became, Father, do in my life whatever brings you the most glory.

All of the dreams I cherished were good things, but I never want my quest for good to hinder God's plans for best.  Getting to be a part of bringing Him glory will bring me more joy than any of those tiny dreams ever could.