Dream giver
The mind wakens slightly and the body moves slow beneath the warmth of the down. I adjust from the state of sleep, and even before I open the temporary bleariness of eyes, I know the time. It is somewhere near the five o'clock hour, and the hush of morning like all of the others over the past month has stirred me gentle. I push away from the bed as I know I must. There are more important things waiting for me than the invitation of a pillow, and I creep careful down the steps so as not to wake the whole house.
The coffee brews slow and rich and when it has sputtered its last drop into my mug I take its comfort into the living room and set it beside my chair where it waits to be useful. I open the notebook and flip through the many pages honored by familiar scrawl. The empty lines draw my hand down to them, and I write.
The pen marks are messy and imperfect. They are not artistically beautiful in their display of characters, and I try not to mourn over misspelled words and grammatical errors. I am there to create all that is whispered raw. I have been called out of my bed for this practice of discipline. Should I be surprised?
It was nearly four years ago that I was waiting for the birth of another dream. I wanted so much to experience the beauty of bringing a child into this world through the groans of spontaneous labor. My three children before were born through the necessity of medical intervention, and I knew that in absence of a miracle the fourth would arrive the same way. But what I had inside of my heart was a healthy dose of hope and a dream.
I remember bold prayers. I was a heart crying passion for the God of heaven to gift me this humble experience. I was at peace with what he would will for me in his yes or in his no.
The day before her scheduled birth, Eliza arrived on the wings of a miracle. I was not so much surprised as I was delighted. I sit back and look at those moments of her birth even now and marvel at the goodness of God. He was not meeting a need, he was providing an extravagant gift that no one else could come close to giving to me.
He wakes me every morning near the five o'clock hour with a call to meet him in the living room. And I answer the stirring because I have a dream and I know a God who makes them come true.
The coffee brews slow and rich and when it has sputtered its last drop into my mug I take its comfort into the living room and set it beside my chair where it waits to be useful. I open the notebook and flip through the many pages honored by familiar scrawl. The empty lines draw my hand down to them, and I write.
The pen marks are messy and imperfect. They are not artistically beautiful in their display of characters, and I try not to mourn over misspelled words and grammatical errors. I am there to create all that is whispered raw. I have been called out of my bed for this practice of discipline. Should I be surprised?
It was nearly four years ago that I was waiting for the birth of another dream. I wanted so much to experience the beauty of bringing a child into this world through the groans of spontaneous labor. My three children before were born through the necessity of medical intervention, and I knew that in absence of a miracle the fourth would arrive the same way. But what I had inside of my heart was a healthy dose of hope and a dream.
I remember bold prayers. I was a heart crying passion for the God of heaven to gift me this humble experience. I was at peace with what he would will for me in his yes or in his no.
The day before her scheduled birth, Eliza arrived on the wings of a miracle. I was not so much surprised as I was delighted. I sit back and look at those moments of her birth even now and marvel at the goodness of God. He was not meeting a need, he was providing an extravagant gift that no one else could come close to giving to me.
He wakes me every morning near the five o'clock hour with a call to meet him in the living room. And I answer the stirring because I have a dream and I know a God who makes them come true.
