Empty Space

What's one thing you're afraid of?
Deathly afraid of.

Spiders?
The dark?
A duck watching your every move? (Don't laugh--it's legit.)

We smile at those things, the "little kid fears."
We fear other things now that we're grown.

Losing our financial stability.
Not being understood by our friends.
Never finding true happiness.

Everyone has a different set of fears, and a different toolkit of coping.

But there is one thing we all fear.

We all fear being abandoned.

The child forgotten, the friend betrayed, the wife divorced, the boyfriend dumped. We don't want to be any of that.

We tremble in our deepest souls at the thought of being lost, alone, forgotten.

Abandoned.

And yet.
Isn't it strange how we abandon things without any second thought?

I'm not just talking about the animals dumped off the side of the road, the children aborted for no reason, or the friendships we quit putting time into because "well, we're just so different now."

What about the inanimate things we handle every day?

That mp3 player you used when you were thirteen. Or maybe the record player, depending on your age. Where is it?
What ever happened to that stuffed animal you had when you were a baby? Probably fell to pieces after the 4967th time in the washer. Who knows?
The tin can that you had lunch out of last week. Where did it go? In the trash, of course--or maybe, if you're extra fastidious, the recycling. Beyond that, who knows. And who cares?

"Hey now, that old thing (insert whatever you please) just wore out! It quit working. It was junk. I literally could not keep using it. I moved on. Change and moving on is healthy!"

Yeah, I know. Believe me, I know.
But that's the way we've been structured to live.

How many times a year does that smartphone in your pocket demand an update?
Have you ever looked at it and gone, "Seriously, I like this just the way it is. Would you stop it with the updates?"
Or do you always just download it without a second thought?

We're consumers--the biggest consumers of any era that could be named. We're spending, taking selfies, and digging through a thousand different kinds of mustard on a supermarket shelf to find happiness. But the solid foundation built beneath us by fathers, grandfathers, and the hopeful and brave who have gone before is starting to crumble into pieces.

Our societal Pangaea is splitting into continents. But it's not cracking in large, uniform pieces. It's splintering into thousands. And somehow, we're all ending up marooned on our own little piece of rock, drifting through a silent, empty space.

We idolize Robinson Crusoe, cast away with nothing and no one but his wits and his will to survive. But we don't want to be him.

Our society has been shaped and re-shaped many times in the last number of years. It's quickly arriving at a juncture that none of us want to accept or admit--soon, we'll all be floating islands, forgotten tech, and discarded tin cans.

We've made such a habit of abandoning things that soon it's going to be our turn.

I'm not preaching doom. Don't get me wrong.
But I'm also not here to say that we can change the flow of time either.

Eventually, and a very soon eventually at that, we will be left with nothing but our wits and our will to survive. It's coming to everyone. We aren't ready for it.

There is a saying. It goes something like this:
"Good times make weak men.
Weak men make hard times.
Hard times make strong men.
Strong men make good times."

It's a cycle. I believe we're in the second quarter, making hard times for ourselves--making our daily lives a tangle of the very thing we fear most in the world. We're about to find out what hard times are like. And we aren't a bit ready.

The good news is that the third quarter comes close on the second's heels. "Hard times make strong men." Men of faith, of courage, of resource. Men who will look around them and make use of whatever they find. Men who will, in the solitude of their broken islands, at last face their fear of abandonment and shed the habits they've built up.

And when the hard lessons have been learned, eventually those shattered bits of rock floating in space, each with its lonely commander, will find their way back together again. Not because of some random blowing of ethereal wind, either. We'll forge rockets, fit them to our islands, and go in search of the better times.

My suggestion?

Learn now to love the silence of empty space, the fury of the heavenly winds, the sparkle of nothing around you but a thousand colored nebulae and distant galaxies. If you make a friend of that vast, empty space now, someday when it's all you have you won't feel so lost.

Then maybe, when the hard times hit and we're left to watch the shifting celestial clouds of stardust, we'll see the answers to our fears and find the source of strength once again that at present we've all but forgotten exists.

And once that happens, once we are made hopeful and brave again, the better times will return. Oh it may not be in this world--we may have to wait till the next to find them. But they'll come.

For now, I'm going star-gazing. Who wants to come?

Long Road Home

You may or may not have read a short allegory of mine entitled “Little Flock of Dreams.” It is that work which forms the premise for this one. You can find it here. It explains all of that which has gone before.

Sometimes we find that what we thought was absolute surrender was really an elaborate mirage—and that when we wake, the choice of freedom comes dearer than it did before. But freedom has already been paid for. We just need to be willing--willing to love, willing to trust, and willing to take the leap of faith into the arms that are already open and waiting for us.

Perhaps, as you read of my own to-be-continued experience, you will see yourself. Please also see the Shepherd. He’s pleading for you, just as He’s pleading for me. We both have a choice to make. Let’s not disappoint Him who loves us best.

----------

Who I will be someday, in the place where I will end up, turns to the last page of the chapter, scans it, and leans back with a happy sigh. Finally started to Canaan, the Shepherd leading the way and the oasis of Imagination vanished from view behind. It was a perfect ending.

Except that it wasn’t an end. My future self eyes the next chapter suspiciously. I remember this: and it’s not something I like re-living. What horror, what absolute shame I felt! And yet, there are the words—my own memories of that terrible moment when I awoke and found it was all a dream.

No, not quite all: but all too much. I begin to read.

That moment I opened my eyes was one of extreme confusion. The leafy fronds of my oasis waved overhead. But I had seen it vanish into the desert sands. How could it have reappeared—out of thin air?

That’s when I noticed the altar. I thought that last dream had gone up in smoke. I thought I’d wept in the Shepherd’s arms. Maybe I did—it all seemed so real. But then, how could the altar still be here, with that final dream lying lifeless on it? And why were my fingers twined so tightly around the woolly coat of that pitiful dream?

I didn’t understand at all. What had happened? Where was I? And then I heard a soft sound behind me.

He was sitting there, on the ground. My gentle, patient Shepherd. His eyes looked sad, His face almost years older. I saw a light kindle in those loving eyes as my own bewildered ones rested on His face.

“You’re awake.” That was all He said. I heard that same hopefulness in His voice that I had grown to love.

“Have I been sleeping?” I looked around.

“For awhile now,” He replied.

“Are we in Canaan?” I felt ridiculous asking the question, but I couldn’t bear to make it any more direct.

“No, no.” He sighed a little. “We’re still here.”

“In the very same place?” I stared at the altar. “Is this the very same altar?”

“The very same, both.”

“Is this really my old dream?” I scrutinized it. “It looks different.”

“It’s changed some.” He rose and stood beside me and put a hand on the dream’s head. “Dreams do that sometimes, even after they die.”

I fell silent. What had happened?

“Didn’t I burn it…?” My voice was very small. I felt very small as I said it.

“It got fairly alight, yes.” The Shepherd nodded. He stood close to me, but I now noticed that His hand rested on the altar, not on my shoulder, as it had done so many times before. “But the fires of surrender will blow out in the merest fraction of a second if a regretful hand touches them.”

“Did I…?”

“You did.”

“But I don’t remember doing that!” I cried. I would’ve torn away from the altar, but something seemed to hold me chained to it. My fingers were hopelessly entangled in that dry wool. “I watched the oasis disappear!”

“It did disappear, briefly. But when once you touched the fires, you fell asleep.” The Shepherd’s eyes filled with tears. “And as soon as your head dropped, seedlings sprouted and water seeped up from the ground once more. Sometimes our oases are resilient.”

Tears streamed down my face. “But I want to go. I don’t want to stay here. Why didn’t You wake me?”

“I called you,” He said, looking deep into my eyes. I averted them, ashamed that the voice I loved had been unheard in my deep slumber. “But there is a law written, about these fires. I am not at liberty to use force to waken. I can only use Love.”

“Then why did I waken now?”

“I was singing.”

I felt a thrill of hope. “Then it was your voice that brought me back after all.”

“My Child, I have been sitting there in the same attitude for many months—and I have been singing to you the entire time.” He pointed at the spot on the mossy oasis floor where He had been.

I turned away as much as I could. He leaned closer. “But you have finally heard Me, and have shaken off the stupor that comes from touching the fire. Won’t you come away with Me now?”

“I suppose I can just walk away and leave everything as it is.” My voice sounded harsh and bitter. Where did that come from? It wasn’t His fault I’d been here like this for so long! Why was I taking it out on Him?

“You are free to walk away—it is a choice.”

“Perhaps You aren’t aware that I can’t!” Angry words began to tumble out. “I can’t move, I can’t disentangle my fingers from this wretched dream, and I can’t make the oasis disappear again. Why do You ask so much of me?” I knew as I said it it wasn’t true. He had asked so little of me—where, oh, where were these hateful sentiments coming from? Why couldn’t I stop?

He stood there quietly as I raged at Him. When at last my voice tired itself out, I fell weeping onto the altar. I knew now I had made it ten thousand times worse—but what did it matter? I couldn’t free myself. He had admitted He wasn’t allowed to force me away. There was no hope.

When at last I dared to look up at Him again, He smiled. It wasn’t the full, beautiful smile I remembered from before. It was a sad smile; but I could still see hope in His face. He still believed. Couldn’t I?

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

The smile remained. “You are forgiven, My Child.”

“I want to be free.”

“Do you truly want it?”

“Yes, I truly do.”

He looked at the dream lying on the altar and my own form, half-draped across the stones. He bowed His head for what seemed like a very long time. When He looked at me again, I could see anxiety in His features.

“Freedom always comes at a price, My Child. And each successive freedom becomes more and more difficult to obtain: not because it is any less willingly given, but because it is harder for prisoners to reach the light. Do you understand?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“When you reached your hands into the fire of surrender, it put you to sleep. It rebuilt your oasis and, as it were, turned the tables back again. As you have slept, your dream has changed some—but it still must be offered up.”

I nodded. “I suppose I can understand that.”

“What you may not realize is that something else must now go with it.” His shoulders trembled a little.

I looked around me. “What else could I possibly put on the altar?”

“Yourself.”

I’m sure my face never looked so stunned in my life. I made a pitiful spectacle, standing there chained to this altar by my own choice. And now my Shepherd was telling me the only way out of the mess I had made was to climb onto the altar and be the sacrifice?

“You must be joking,” I stammered.

He only shook His head.

“You mean—you mean I have to be sacrificed? My own person?” Terror clutched at my heart. “You mean I’ve got to lie on this thing and let the fire consume me?”

“You said you wanted freedom.” The Shepherd brushed His hand across the altar’s top. “From where you now stand, that is the way.”

I burst into tears again. This was incomprehensible. Memories had started to come back—and yes, now I could vaguely remember thrusting my hands into the fire, as if to snatch my dream out. But then everything became muddled. I thought I had watched the ashes float up, and seen the oasis vanish into the sand. I realized now it must’ve been a vision brought on by the effects of my heavy sleep. But to burn on the altar—myself? For a mistake made in a moment?

“I never can,” I sobbed. “You know I fear the fire. I fear it with all my heart. I can never lie in its very bosom: not to save my life.”

Through my tears I saw the nail-scarred hands grip the stones of the altar until the knuckles went white. The voice came through my agony, so intense and pleading that I paused. “Please—you must! Oh, you must!”

“How could you ask me to do that?” I cried, choking on my own words. “I thought You loved me. And yet You would rather see me ashes upon the altar than here, in flesh and blood?”

“You don’t understand,” He said, tears streaming down His own cheeks. “You can never be separated from that altar now until you’ve offered yourself on it. Canaan is unattainable until you have made the choice to be free.”

“I thought You loved me!” The accusation rang afresh from my lips.

“I do.” He bent His head. “With all My heart. Do you think I would be here still if I didn’t?”

I swallowed another sob. He had a point.

“You are the most precious thing in the world to Me,” He went on, beautiful voice catching. “Do you think I would give you up to the fire without cause?”

“What sort of love is it that gives its dearest treasures into the fire?”

“The only kind of love really worth having.”

I’d heard Him say things like that before. I’d believed Him back then. But now, when it concerned me, myself; I wasn’t so sure. I lifted my gaze to His face.

“Isn’t there any other way?” I pleaded.

He shook His head. “None.”

I stared at my hands, veritably chained to the altar via that wretched dream. Now I had a choice. My Shepherd was there at my elbow, pleading with tears for me to burn so I could go with Him. And yet my heart quailed at the thought of the fire, the thought of the pain, the surrender—and the fear of ending it all. Did I want freedom enough to die for it?

How long I stood there, I know not. All I could see was the altar, as if it were growing larger by the minute, and as it were a huge fire raging atop it. Of course, the fire wasn’t there—but my heart feared it, and had conjured up an imaginary one for me to shrink from.

The Shepherd stood quietly beside me. He didn’t speak now. It was as if He knew this choice I had to make on my own. He had already done His part.

“I’m afraid to die,” I finally whispered.

He smiled tenderly. “I have seen but few who weren’t.”

“Have you ever met anyone who didn’t fear the fire?” I turned to Him now, trying to find a reason to be brave.

“Yes—in Canaan.”

My heart fell. “Of course. The fire only consumes things in Canaan, not hearts and souls and bodies.” I knew I sounded sarcastic, but I was disappointed.

“Oh, but there you would be wrong, My Child.” The Shepherd circled the altar, tracing the stones with a finger. “My servant Abraham laid his only child on the altar.”

I stared. “A child?”

“His only child,” the Shepherd repeated.

“How could he?” I couldn’t comprehend this.

“Because it was what was asked of him—the price of freedom.”

“What about the child?” I pressed. “Did it not have a right to life? Could it not have been better used than as a sacrifice: or is the Prince of Canaan so arbitrary that He must have anything that His subjects hold dear?” I was surprised at my words, more so that they were asked in honesty, not bitterness.

The Shepherd paused directly opposite me. “Do you remember what I first told you of Canaan?”

I tried to remember. It seemed so long ago. “You said the people offered up morning and evening sacrifices of their best,” I recalled, speaking slowly.

“And what else?”

I couldn’t remember anything else.

“They offer up all they have, and they are blessed,” the Shepherd said, reciting the words as if by heart. “Now, do you remember what I told you of My own altar?”

I shook my head. I truly didn’t.

“I offered up My dream on an altar.” The Shepherd motioned to the cold stones in between us. “And directly I had offered it up, it was given back to me, brighter and more glorious than it could’ve ever been otherwise.”

“Do you mean to tell me that sacrifice—burning—makes our dreams and lives more beautiful?” I shook my head. “I don’t see how, especially if I’m dead.”

“Do you trust Me?”

I looked at the Shepherd. Did I trust Him? I trusted Him before, so why did I feel so hesitant now? He had proved Himself a true Friend, one who would never hurt me or lead me astray. Couldn’t I trust Him in the flames as well as on the road?

“Maybe I don’t,” I finally admitted. “But I want to be free.”

“Do you love Me?”

My eyes filled with tears now. “Yes, I do.”

“That is all it takes, then.” The Shepherd motioned to the altar.

Every limb trembling, I tried to pull myself onto the altar. Tears streamed down my face. “I’m too weak.”

Suddenly, while still struggling to get up, I received a boost. I found myself sitting atop the altar, right next to my dead dream. The Shepherd stood behind me. He looked far happier than I thought He would.

“Are you ready?” He produced a flaming brand.

I shifted, crouching low over my dead dream, digging my fingers tighter into the wool and bracing myself for the pain. “Yes.” My body trembled like a leaf in the wind.

One corner of the wood sprang alight. I began to weep as I thought of all I had wanted to do with my life, the places I wanted to go, the things I wanted to see, the people I wanted to love before my time came. And here I was, giving it all up—every last bit of it—just to please the Shepherd.

The flames grew hotter, drew closer, but my mind seemed far away. All my memories, the good and the bad, danced across my imagination, and I cried more. It was too much—I suddenly knew I couldn’t do it on my own. Suddenly I realized that if left to my own devices, I would extinguish the fires of surrender again—and who knew if there would be any return from them if extinguished twice.

“Help!” I cried. “I must go through, I must!”

As the flames swept upwards and began to engulf me, I suddenly felt a pair of arms wrap around me tightly. My head was pressed against a heavily-beating heart and I felt a peace like nothing I had ever known.

For a little while, the fire stormed all around, a wall of glowing embers. But then I realized what was happening—my Shepherd, my Friend, had leaped into the fire with me!

“No!” I began to cry. “You mustn’t! It is my place! You’ll die!”

He didn’t seem to hear me. In the midst of the roaring fire, I heard a gentle whisper. “Do you trust Me?”

“Stop!” I shrieked. “You can’t die! You just can’t!”

I felt myself fainting. Surely the end had come. What despair filled my heart as I realized my Shepherd was dying too. Then my eyes closed and I remembered no more.

----------

My eyes blinked open. I was unsure of where I was at first—I concluded I must be dead, but how could I have my eyes open if that were the case?

Above me, there was a starry night sky. “I never thought I would see that again,” I said. Then I suddenly sat bolt upright. “I survived!” I cried, examining my hands, my face, my legs for signs of the fire. There were none!

I didn’t understand this at all. How could I have gone through the fire and come out alive? I turned to ask the Shepherd about it, but He was nowhere to be seen.

And then it hit me, like a blast of rough wind. The memory of those strong arms, the beating heart, the gentle whisper in the fire. My entire body became ice as I turned toward the altar. My little dream had gone, consumed by the flames…and so had the Shepherd.

I collapsed against the cold stones, scarcely able to breathe. All that remained was a pile of ashes. I had lived—He had died.

I buried my face in those ashes and sobbed. How could it be? I deserved death, not Him. What would Canaan do without their Prince? What would I do without my Shepherd? I didn’t understand: I only knew that I had killed Him, the One I had loved. The One who loved me. I was a murderer, a selfish, blood-stained murderer.

I lifted my face from the altar, streaked with grime and tears. And that’s when I noticed the edge of something white sticking out of the ash.

I pulled it out. “The Shepherd’s robe.” To my surprise, it had nary a stain or mark upon it. And it seemed to flicker, as if it had consumed the fire rather than the other way around.

Suddenly, I heard a gentle whisper just behind me. “My Child.”

I whirled around, heart leaping to my throat. Yet all I saw was desert.

“My Child.” The whisper came again, just behind me. I whirled about again. Still, nothing but desert.

“Where are You?” I cried.

“Be still,” the Voice said. “I am with you. I will be with you always, even to the end of the world.”

“But I killed You!” I cried, clutching the white robe tighter.

“This is the true Sacrifice,” the Voice told me. “No greater love hath any than a man that lays down his life for his friends.”

“But where will I go? What will I do?” I continued to speak to the sky, and the Voice continued to answer me, always just behind me.

“I have gone to prepare a place for you, My Child. But never fear—I will be with you. You must come to Me; and I will in no wise cast you out.”

“Come to You? To Canaan?”

There was no answer this time. “Of course,” I answered myself, “to Canaan.” A perplexing thought suddenly crossed my mind. “But how will I get there? I don’t know the way!”

“You will hear a Voice behind you, saying ‘this is the way, walk ye in it,’ when you turn to the right hand and when you turn to the left,” the Voice replied.

I looked down at the Shepherd’s robe. “And this?”

“It is the gold tried in the fire, the eye salve that you might see, the garment white, without spot or wrinkle. It is yours, without money and without price.”

I realized now that my other garments had been consumed in the fire. I slipped His robe over my head, feeling a sense of awe at my utter unworthiness.

“Go now.” The Voice seemed to be fading away. “Remember, I have loved you with an everlasting love. I gave Myself that you might be with Me where I am. Hasten Home, My Child. I will be waiting.”

Then the Voice went away. All around me was desert, the oasis at last gone for good. The altar stood beside me, silent and still. Atop it lay one last thing—a long, straight stick that the fire had hardened. I took it down. Everyone knows that a pilgrim needs a staff.

I faced the altar one last time. “Dear Shepherd, forgive me,” I murmured. “Guide me, protect me, bring me safely Home.” With that I turned about and took one step in the direction of Canaan.

And when I did, the altar cracked into a thousand pieces and fell, to be buried forever beneath the desert sand.

My journey isn’t over.

“Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down His life for his friends.”

Who would I be?

If I had every confidence, what would I say?
If nothing could stop me, where would I go?
If fears had no terror, what would I do?
If I could, who would I be?

If confidence?
I would say that I'm not the person you really think I am, that I struggle with things you probably do too.
I would say that I'm terrified of the future, terrified of what is encompassed in "the end;" that I'm trying to trust, but trust more often looks like avoidance.
I would say that life isn't meant to be lived alone. That God never intended man to be an island.
I'd admit that I feel like an island. That I want above all things to not be lonely.
I would tell people when I loved them. Time and time again.
I'd have no reservations about speaking up for my convictions.
I'd speak the truth--peppery, probably, but seasoned with love.
Yes, all of that. If confidence.

If nothing could stop me?
Oh, I'd go everywhere. I'd explore the hallways of Irish castles and climb bell towers in Italy.
I'd dive through long-lost wrecks on the ocean floor in the Mediterranean. I'd canoe up hidden rivers in Canada and photograph a sunrise from the top of Mount Rainier.
I'd snowshoe in the Alps, ride burros into the Andies, go Christmas shopping in New York, and beach combing in Mexico.
I'd climb the Great Wall of China, live in an igloo for a week, herd reindeer in Russia and clamber through caves in Thailand.
And more. So much more. If nothing could stop me.

If fears had no terror?
I'd try everything. Whitewater rafting, downhill skiing, skydiving, deep sea diving, snake charming. If there were no fears, why not?
Everything. Or at least nearly.

If I could.
Who would I be?

Exuberant. Friendly to a fault. Unreserved and positive.
Colorful and a touch wild. Outgoing.
Kind. Deep. A good listener and a good talker.
Genuine. Transparent. A real Christian.

What would I say?
Where would I go?
What would I do?
Who would I be?

If.

But then.

Why not?

Thoughts on Singleness and the Box of Shoes

(For the beautiful ladies in this world who are perhaps wondering, the same as I.)

I've wondered this many times. Perhaps too many. Is it wrong to ask?

Surely not. Jesus said to ask and we would receive. Christiana, from Pilgrim's Progress, learned that “not worth asking means not worth having;” that if we ask and receive, we shall value the gift as we should; and that there are many things God longs to give us, but can’t until we ask for them.

However, it seems almost presumptuous to apply that to this situation.

I could come up with a multitude of reasons why it would be a good thing. God created and ordained it, for one. The Bible is full of proof that it is a good thing, when all is as it should be. When it is the right thing, you become more useful, more productive, happier, more satisfied, better able to serve, and even more able to resist temptation. I mean, how could that not be a good thing?

God said that it was not good for man to be alone. So He made Eve.

But Eve basically woke up and God said “Here you go; enjoy.” In this case, Eve has been living and working and serving and striving and falling and all of that on her own for a decent amount of time. And there’s no indication that Adam’s going to turn up any time soon—and she’s even doubting if he exists.

The other (minor) problem is that Eve can’t figure out what Adam would even look like, be like, or act like. Sometimes she’s thought that he’d be outgoing, friendly, the life of the party—then again, she’s reconsidered and decided he’s probably still friendly, but more quiet, introspective. And then she just doesn’t know and gives up on ever recognizing him.

Then there’s another (minor) problem. Currently, Eve’s living and working in a small corner of the world for a small ministry using her own small talents—albeit, for a big God. But everything about that (save the last factor) is less than conducive to being found by Adam. Or brought to Adam. Or whatever.

Any of this sound familiar? I'm pretty sure I'm not the only girl who's ever felt this way.

Yes, there’s something in me that’s jumping up and down like a little kid who knows a secret and is terrible at keeping them. “Hey! Hey! For real! This is like, the best thing ever! There’s no possible way: and that means God can make a miracle! What are you talking about! Be excited!”

But there’s also a taller, older, less enthusiastic individual with a mallet that reminds you of that Whack-A-Mole game. “Would you stop jumping? Just stop. This is ridiculous.”

“Ask! Ask! Just ask!” *boing boing boing*

“Stop it.” *Whack*

“Ow! Hey, knock that off! I know something you don’t know…And you want to know! But you never will if you don’t ask! Ask! Ask!”

As if my subconscious couldn’t get any more annoying.

There are many schools of thought in the world about this particular thing; especially in the Christian world. There are those who say that women have no business doing anything about their singleness—that they need to sit and wait until God pushes someone onto their doorstep. There are also those who are fed up with that sort of thinking and are all for the “modern woman” approach—be bold, be brave, venture where your grandmother would never have dared to go. Ask a guy out yourself. Pay the bill. Maybe even propose to him. Be on the hunt. Nothing is out of the question.

And there’s every shade of grey in between.

Personally, I don’t subscribe to black or white. I’m in the grey zone somewhere. I don’t for a minute believe that women should be sitting at home doing nothing; but I don’t believe that they should be flying in the face of every eligible bachelor with the war cry, “Will you try my shoes on?!” either.

The shoes. Let me explain about the shoes.

Every person is born into this world and given a box. It’s a very normal-shaped box; and you, as an infant, just aren’t that interested in the box. In fact, for the first decade of your life, you really don’t even care much about the box.

Little girls tend to find out about their boxes (and care about them) much sooner than little boys. They often grow up playing “dress up” and staging mock weddings with their stuffed animals and carting around baby dolls, naming them Suzi or Carrie and then pointing proudly at themselves when a stranger asks, “Who’s the baby’s mother?”

Meanwhile, in the corner, Bobby and Joe are alternating between racing matchbox cars and beating each other up in a game of cowboys and Indians. Yes, little girls know about the box sooner.

Nobody is the same. And so, the boxes get opened at all different times. However, regardless of when you open the box, you’ll all find the same thing: a pair of shoes. And it’s not a pair of shoes for you,
either.

This pair of shoes is going to fit perfectly on the person God intended you to marry. Your job? Keep the shoes clean until God brings someone into your life who will wear those shoes—and love them, I might add.

This also means that someone out there has a pair of shoes that will fit you. And you will love them.

Here’s the problem: there are any number of pairs of shoes that would “fit” you. So much more goes into a shoe than its size. There’s style, and color, and brand and a dozen other things to take into account. There’s also the pair of shoes you’re holding to take into account. Maybe a pair of work boots would go perfectly with a pair of diamond-encrusted heels. On the other hand, maybe not so much.

There are also shoes that are the “right size” but due to something down inside that you may not have noticed at the first, they aren’t a good fit. This brings up a small dilemma: do you really need someone to try your shoes on before they say they want them?

Do you have to try shoes on before deciding which ones are yours?

(And when I talk about trying on shoes, I’m not for a minute talking about getting intimate before marriage, or “exploring” in any way like that. I’m talking about courtship, relationships. Getting to know someone as a friend, as a person, as a potential spouse. Just to make that clear.)

Yes, you have to try shoes on. There have been a few cases in the history of our world where a couple of people merely looked at a pair of shoes and went “There it is! Those are mine!” and indeed, they were. But that’s just not how life tends to work. So we often search for someone who will love and wear our shoes.

But we don’t all search in the same way. There are two basic extremes, accompanied again by all those shades of grey in between. One extreme is the typical desperado, who runs from person to person, asking in a non-stop chatter, “Will you try my shoes on? How about you? Here, try my shoes! Have my shoes!”

Then there’s the other extreme, who never pulls the shoes out of the box at all. In fact, their mantra is, “You may not even LOOK at my shoes until you say you want them and you mean it.”

Don’t laugh. You know you’ve met both types out there.

Here’s the problem with both of those extremes. Trying every shoe on in the world is not going to look industrious or committed. No one’s going to look at you and go, “Wow, that person is just so dedicated to finding THE ONE to fill their shoes, they’ll do anything! That’s so inspiring.” Yeah, not even close. Besides that, you’re bound to end up wearing shoes that are too small, hurt your feet or are so big and floppy they cause blisters. And you’ll probably end up resentful in some way.

And never pulling your shoes out of the box? You already know what kind of problems that will cause. When you finally pull them out after the ring is on, your significant other is going to raise a horrified scream. “Hiking boots? HIKING BOOTS? What do you think I am!?”

Cue divorce, heartbreak, and maybe even a thrown shoe.

One of the biggest problems I’ve found is that I don’t even know what the shoes I’m holding look like, let alone the ones I want to wear for the rest of my life. I know a few basics about what my own shoes need to be: they have to be big enough, comfortable, and durable. I want them to last. I want to hike and explore and climb in them. I want to swim, to fly, to dance in them. Serve, laugh, cry. Everything. Really live.

Is there a pair of shoes out there that could hold up through salt water and mountain climbing? Oh, probably. But it won’t be a pair of stilettos, I’m sure.

Then there’s the shoes I’m holding. It’s kind of dark around here, so I’m trying to figure out what these shoes are like by feeling them. Pretty much, what I know is they’re all-terrain, sturdy, and very—VERY—large.

Not much to go on. And that brings us back to the former question: what is a girl’s place in this “search?” Wait to be rescued? Start trying to find your own way out of the tower and hope that the knight will show up at some point? Forget about knights and horses altogether?

Stripping away all allegorical language, I wonder frequently if it would be wrong to make it a habit to, every day, actively ask God to show me His plan, and to bring into my life whoever it is that I will
be able to serve with. “I’m here again, Lord. I still trust You. Your promises still stand. But since it didn’t happen yesterday, I’m asking again today.”

There’s a large portion of people out there who would be extremely uncomfortable with that. There’s a large portion of people out there who would laugh outright at that. And every shade of grey in between.

I recently heard a sermon given by a friend of mine that gave a set of “rules” if you will, for making decisions in life, especially important ones. He talked about surrendering your will, making sure that whatever He plans is okay with you; he talked about praying without ceasing for God to show you the way. But what struck me the most was when he talked about “making a start.”

You have to make a start. You can’t say, “Lord, show me which of these doors to go through,” and then not move. You have to start walking toward one of them. You have to start trying them. God will come through and direct you, through circumstances, to the right door. He’s never failed before; and He certainly won’t fail you now.

How does one “make a start,” though, when there are no doors? Just a mostly dark room, and a very large pair of shoes?

I haven’t figured it out yet.

Is singleness a curse? Not for a moment. Is it to be resented or something to get out of as fast as you possibly can? Absolutely not.

But there’s a familiar verse in the Bible that says God longs to give you the desires of your heart. Maybe a home of your own and a family aren’t high on your list—but they have been on mine since I was little. I don’t at all regret this time in the “tower.” But is it perhaps time to start asking to be shown a way out?

There he goes again, that little, all-too-excitable creature with the pogo stick. “Ask! Ask! Ask! You’ll never know if you don’t ask! It’s a start! Be excited! Miracles are waiting!”

The one with the Whack-A-Mole mallet is there too. But for some reason, he’s oddly quiet now.

“This is the confidence that we have in Him, that if we ask anything according to His will, He heareth us. And if we know that He hears us, whatsoever we ask, we know that we have the petitions that we desired of Him” (1 John 5:14, 15).

What 23 feels like

For the first time in my life, that sword of mine is coming in handy.

Maybe I'm actually using it properly now. 

Honestly, pre-23 I had a good hold on the thing but I didn't have a clue of what to do with it. Maybe I'm supposed to use it to impale those who venture too close. Maybe it's meant to open locks, slice ties. Could I use it like a shovel? Maybe it's supposed to be a glorified kitchen knife. I can't use it properly, no matter how hard He tries to show me: this thrust disarms this pass. This cut negates this swipe. I just didn't get it.

23 came. And for the first time in amidst the wild swinging and tired arms, I hit right. I blocked a tricky pass. It wasn't an accident, either. I used this deadly tool correctly. I can't begin to tell you what that feels like. 

Oh, I'm no proficient yet. But I'm learning.

All these years I thought I was a warrior princess. 

But really, I was only in training to be a queen.

Don't for a minute think I'm there yet. I'm on this journey just like you are. There are still days when the Master Swordsman, teaching me patiently still after all these years, allows a pass or a thrust that throws the sword from my hand and sends it clattering on the pavement. 

But someday I'll have learned to block every pass. And someday you'll learn your art, too.

Remember you're in training. 

The best? You'll get a taste of ultimate glory here. But the rest is still to come.

Pictures

I am an artist.

Each day I walk into my studio, flip on the lights, and stare at blank canvass.

Each day, I grasp hold of inspiration from somewhere: the plant in my window, the tune on the radio in the corner, the smile on my wife’s face when I left the house this morning.

Each day, I pick up my tools and go to work.

Monday, it was a majestic elk, standing poised for flight in a mossy, sunlit forest.

Tuesday, a laughing child, holding a swallowtail butterfly with delicate fingertips.

Wednesday, a shipwreck lying picturesque on the ocean floor, silent, and filled with sea life.

But on Thursday, when I walked into my studio and flipped on the lights, it was different.

I didn’t see the blank canvass this morning, fraught with opportunity. This morning I see all the full canvasses, lining the walls.

The elk. The child. The shipwreck. And dozens of others, in varying stages of completion. I see them this morning, not the blank one.

And though I may be an artist unlike any other, unique in interpretation, style, and detail, I suddenly see through the deception. I’m no different than the rough, eclectic college kid next door, who splatters globs of paint and waves aerosol cans around. No different than the cultured actress who purchased a white canvass with one black dot in the middle for a quarter-million, framed it in gold and called it art. I am a replica. Not an individual.

My eyes strayed to the canvass, the blank one in the center of the room. I see pictures: a refugee, eyes widened with fear; a child lying alone, wrapped in an old blanket on a street corner; an old man standing next to a freshly-dug grave.

My art reflects life. My art takes this world and makes everything in it poetic. But does it count? Does it touch? Is it real?

If I died tomorrow, what would the last picture be? What would my final contribution to humanity look like? An elk standing on a hilltop? Or something deeper?

I let my coat fall to the floor that Thursday morning. And I advanced toward the blank canvass. It was time to change.

When was the last time?

When was the last time you took a breath and thought about it?

When was the last time you actually took note of how you were walking, how those feet of yours could get you from point A to point B?

When was the last time you suddenly realized that life was a miracle?

When was the last time you stopped a moment to actually get your face real close to a flower and notice the intricate delicacy?

When was the last time you looked at the work you do every day--really looked at it?

When was the last time you really looked at anything?

When was the last time you realized that the desire for love wasn't a curse, but a gift?

When was the last time you filled up with eager expectancy of the two-fold happily ever after God is waiting to give you: here on earth, and in Heaven?

When was the last time you treated love as a miracle, and not a right?

When was the last time you looked up at God and saw a Father--the kind of father we all want?

When was the last time you obeyed Him, not because "He said so." but because you loved Him?

When was the last time you put your all in His hands, not because you had to, but because you suddenly saw life--and Him--for what it all was?

When was the last time you lived... really lived?

The Dream

I don't have superstitious beliefs about dreams. I know God uses them sometimes, but often they're just random figments of conscious and subconscious thought.

But I had a dream this morning that was so remarkable, in a strange way, that I knew I had to write it down. I knew I had to remember.

There are a thousand implications in this story. I have drawn none definitely.

But it may be that someone, somewhere, is fighting an invisible foe while trying to deal with a visible enemy. If so, take courage. The man in white gave you a sword for a reason.

---------------------------------------

The challenge came at an unexpected time. But when I heard it, I knew it had to be.

The messenger, whoever he was, must've smirked as he left me, pondering the weight of the challenge. If you believe in this cause so strongly, you'll fight for it. And if you'll fight for it, you'll fight us.

I took him up on it. And when I saw who had volunteered to be in the ring with me, I indulged in my own smirk. I knew this one. I looked into his eyes and saw that he knew me, too. It was a recognizing glance.

He was trying to save me, to save my life. He wouldn't kill me. I knew that. I would win. And that book that had been spreading such evil, such darkness, would be destroyed. The enemy would lose. And truth would be triumphant again.

The commander, the ringleader of it all, stood a little to the side and watched as I faced his chosen combatant. The two of us--my would-be savior and I--compared our weapons. His was decidedly longer.

"How could we call this contest fair," said I, "if our weapons are not the same size?"

The commander sneered at me, as if I were an insolent puppy. "You will use the weapons I decide on."

My opponent looked into my eyes. He looked down at his weapon. And without a word, he changed it for the other one lying on the table beside us; the one that matched mine. Then, he walked away.

I raised my chin, looking at the real antagonist. His eyes burned fury at me, but he too, walked away.

Back in a room, before the contest, I donned my gear, taking special care with the pieces that would protect me during the fight. I had seen those eyes: the eyes that had looked into mine held sympathy. He agreed with me, with the cause I was fighting for; but he'd never had a chance to avow his belief in the truth I espoused. This would give him that chance.

That book. I shuddered as I thought of it. It was that book whose power almost none could resist. Its influence seething through the multitude like liquid darkness, it evaporated the strength and sapped the courage from the strongest, the bravest, and the best. When its deadly taint moved on, it left only shells of humanity behind.

I clenched my fist in anger at the thought. But then, I straightened again. Today, the decision would be made. We would see who really was God upon the earth.

As I finished my preparations, a man in white came in. He carried a long, sharp sword. "Here." He held it out to me. "Put this on."

I stared in confusion. "But the weapons have been decided upon already. And I am a fair fighter, regardless of how debauched the force I face."

"You will want it," the man said.

"But I will win!" I insisted. "I saw the eyes of the one I fight against. He will not kill me. He means to spare me."

The man put the sword in my hand with a definite gaze. "You will need it. Put it on; but secure it beneath your garments."

The memory of fastening the sword and even of the man himself is vague. The next I knew I was on the field, with my small weapon, facing my opponent. His face looked like flint, but those eyes: they told me all I wanted to know. This conquest would be won; and I could finally destroy that book. Forever.

I glanced to the center of the field. The book stood there, on end. The cover blazed with a scarlet and purple sunset. I set my jaw. Today it would be vanquished. No more lives destroyed. No more insidious evil in the ranks of truth.

We closed in, circled. Weapons met several times, daggers glinting off one another and an occasional hand wresting with a strong arm. The sides opposite us watched in silence.

Then came the moment. With one swing, he was down; and though he could have pierced me as he fell, he didn't. He lay at my feet, alive; and as he glanced up, I saw the emotion on his face. He'd never done something like this before, spared a life for the sake of the truth. It had cost him dignity, but it would be repaid a thousandfold. I knew that.

I turned on the book now, ready to sever it. But a shout arose from the sidelines, and in a moment, the commander himself, purple with rage, leaped the bounds and came at me. I saw a long, sharp sword in his hand, raised high; and then, he vanished. I knew he was still there. I heard the feet running. But I couldn't see him anymore.

Now the book itself became mobile, almost seeming to dance about me, just out of reach. A furious outcry arose from both sides: the honor and chivalry of this contest had been smashed in a moment.

As the invisible foe approached, I withdrew my own sword. I thought back to the man in white, telling me to put it on. And as I blocked my head from an invisible pass, I remembered his words: "You will need it."

My arm, my sword, gained direction from something greater than I. Every pass thrown, every cut well-aimed from the invisible commander; I met it all with a strength I knew was not my own. A sharp crash, and I would hear him stumble backwards, crying in rage.

I would then turn to the book, chasing after it, trying to slice it in two; but always before I reached it, the commander's invisible sword came down and I had to defend myself again. After a time or two of this, I realized why he put up such a fight: that book was the lifeblood of his very being. If I could destroy the book, I could destroy him. My determination quickened.

It seemed hours that this went on; defending my head, sending him to his knees, then swiping at that wretched book, a scarlet-and-purple blur on the field. All I could see was that book, still living. All I knew was that I could not quit this field until it had been destroyed.

An almighty crash with the flat of my blade sent the invisible antagonist flying across the field. With eyes that I never before knew had existed, I saw him lying in a heap, injured but not done for. I turned now on the book. It stood still in the field, sitting on one end. I reached it and began to hack at the top.

The commander, still invisible, cried out in horror and rage. He may have tried to rise; but he never came at me. A force more powerful than he had decided this contest.

The book stood like steel as I tried again and again to sever it, bringing the edge of the sword straight down time and again. However, it could not last. One final swing sheared the instrument of death in half, top to bottom, though the book remained on end.

I now approached a place on the ground where I knew he lay. My sword directed itself, point now touching an invisible throat. "This day is the saying fulfilled in your ears," my voice said. "Have you any last words?"

The specter gave me no response. One swipe finished him.

I now returned to the book. Sheathing my sword, I kicked the two halves over first, then bent to pick them up. The covers were lined with page upon page of black ink, written words that I knew had been the death of thousands. No more.

With a heave, I threw the whole pile into the air. And the fluttering pages scattered to the ends of the earth, never again to be put back together. Truth had prevailed again.

How many more?

She couldn't do it on her own. The very idea was ludicrous--as was the picture.

Tiny child, clutching a ragged bundle, standing at the edge of a muddy swamp. She has tears in her eyes; her little voice is raised in sorrow. "But I can't get past it!"

Someone appears at her side. He kneels beside her and dries her tears. "Come child. I'll take you."

She bounds into His arms, putting one arm around His neck; the other still clutches the ragged bundle. He carries her and they begin to cross the swamp.

But they have only gone two steps before the Man says, "Child, I need you to hang on with both hands. Here; let me carry your bundle."

He reaches out and takes the bundle in one hand. But the little girl cries out in fear and releases her hold on Him, frantically clinging to the bundle. She falls from His arms and splashes into the mud.

The tears come again. The Man pauses, bends over. "I'm sorry," the little child sobs. "Here, please take me up again. I promise I won't do that anymore."

So He picks her up again... but before they can go any farther, He once again asks for her bundle. "I need you to hang on to Me with both of your hands."

Another frantic cry and another splash into the mud. Again. And again. And again.

Tears fill my eyes. I look at the ragged bundle in my arms, and the filthy puddle I sit in. I look up at His eyes, kind and understanding. I look at the rest of the swamp: we haven't even really started to cross it yet.

How many more times must I fall?

None. He tells me none.

"Or let him take hold of My strength, that he may make peace with Me; and he shall make peace with Me" (Isaiah 27:5).

Love

It was too big for me to process. Too big to really process.

I was too big, too terrible, for me to process.

But as the ink flowed onto the paper, thoughts rearranged themselves in a comprehensible--though not chronological--order. I started to see.

That was called love. But it was false love. Oh, it looked so real; but it was jealousy. Selfishness. It was dangerous, devouring, destroying. What do you call such a thing? It's certainly not love. It's a monster.

Happiness gained by one: true, blissful happiness. And another, the girl, the sister and mother-figure--couldn't let her darling go. She ruined the bliss. Tore all the earth to pieces, in the name of love. But was it love?

That was also called love. She said she loved him. But what had she done? She had consumed him; sapped his life one heartbeat at a time. Her endless demands for his opinion, his counsel, his guardship, his sword: her need was met. But he died, shriveled and spent.

A friend, a counselor. One who taught her the art of the sword. One who counseled. She thought she loved him, too. She needed him to keep her new kingdom running. And he kept going to keep her going, until he finally gave out, years before his time. It seems like love... but was it really?

That veil. It's always there. In fact, it's so much there that that's how the people identify their sovereign. The mask. The hiding. The mystery and secrecy. What does that veil hide, anyway? It was another need: a need to hide that face that drove her to the veil. And from behind the veil, she consumed, devoured, and destroyed.

A rejected, forlorn figure, now elevated to royalty. Cast aside and unwanted, now changing her kingdom, making her subjects love her. But from behind a mask. Hidden behind that mask is a face--and it's isn't a beautiful one.

Oh, and we can't forget the sword. The campaigns. The war and bloodshed. The sword.

Love.
A veil.
A sword.
A hideous face.
A need to consume.

It sounds strangely like a horror film. But it's true. I know it is.

Though it's an allegory too big for my mind to process, something in me picked out pieces that, though also too large, were something more processable.

How often do I call love what really is selfishness?
Have I spent a life, destroyed and devoured the very energy of someone else?
Have I had a veil? ....do I have it still?
How ugly is the face hiding beneath the mask? Is it unbearably hideous, like I've feared for so many years?

And how about you?

I stepped into an allegorical sovereign's shoes. And I saw, not her story, but mine.

However, I saw more than that. I saw hope.

Because I got to read to the end of that story. And I saw the wasted life, the fear, the turmoil. I saw the horror when the guilty one realized how many hearts, lives, had been consumed and devoured by what she blindly believed was love. I saw her end.

I'm not at the end of my story. Therefore, my end does not need to be like that.

Neither does yours.

Perhaps the time has indeed come; or at least is very near; when the risk to remain veiled is greater than the risk of being known.

Perhaps...

Perhaps love is more than you and I ever thought it could be.

When one hangs on

I've never so understood the power of one as yesterday.

Rain poured on the windshield as my little cruiser picked its way through traffic. Lively and animated discussion came from the backseat and bounced around up front. A sunset began to glow on the horizon behind us. Almost out of Spokane: it's about time.

And then something very near my place in the driver's side started to thump. Quietly, then louder and louder.

"What's that?"

"I have no idea." I slowed down, pulling over a bit, hoping that the sound would just go away. It didn't.

"It sounds like a flat." Jessica nodded.

I grimaced. I don't want or need a flat. How on earth!

I flicked the hazard lights on, trying to get off the hill to a level place to check things out.

"Is the car pulling you around?" Kezzia asked.

"Nope."

"Oh. Well, it can't be a flat then."

"Is your tire loose? It could be a loose tire."

We made it to a little pullout in a few moments. The little ratchet came out of the trunk and I took the hub cap off the front left wheel. Four out of five of the lug nuts were so loose I could turn them with my fingers, easily.

It was a simple fix. We got back on our way in a few minutes, having pounded those lug nuts into position. As I pulled back onto the road, I found myself very thankful: thankful for God's protection--and for that one that had hung in there and kept my tire on.

All it took was one. One kept the wheel on and overted a potential catastrophe.

But, by the same token, that one could've been the entire cause of that same catastrophe.

You are one. Hang in there.

Christ was one. He hung in there for you.

Keep holding on. Never underestimate the power of one.

Little Flock of Dreams

I sat on my bed this morning and stared at the ceiling. A dull pain burning inside, questions and choices and whispers rolling around in my head. I wasn't thinking of anything in particular: just that I must trust, I must choose, I must surrender and be content and...

And that's when I heard it. 

It wasn't an audible voice. But I assure you that Someone came into my room this morning, sat Himself on the bed and held me in His arms, and told me a story. It all came to me clearly as I lay here, thinking only of how to cope, and it continued until the very end. When the Voice ceased to speak, I knew I had to write down what I had heard.

I did. And I called it "Little Flock of Dreams."

I pray that your heart will be touched by the Master Storyteller, as mine was early this morning.

Little Flock of Dreams

In the vast dusty desert of life there is an oasis. It’s not very big, and it sits in the dustiest and driest part of the desert. The oasis is named Imagination. It’s lush and green all the year round, and the deep blue pool in its center reflects back the bright clouds in the day and the twinkling stars at night.

This little oasis is almost my dwelling place. It is where I come in the heat of the day, where I come in the night when sleepless, and where I spend some of my most peaceful and happy hours. When the dust storms rise from the east, or the cold wind from the north, or the blazing heat from the south or the drought from the west, I come to my oasis.

I am a shepherd. I keep a little flock of dreams in the oasis called Imagination. I started with only a few, many years ago, and now I have a good collection. I love them dearly, and care for them as if I had no other care in the world. I’ve made sure that all the poisonous snakes and weeds are not to be found in the oasis, and I see that they are well-fed and happy.

But they always stay in the oasis. It is rare indeed that one of my little dreams decides to brave life’s dusty desert. I hope every day when I come to feed them that they will choose to start out of the shady oasis, but never do they do so. I must be content to remain with them until they are content to move on.

You see, I have a journey I would like to take. I’ve been told that over those mountains, far across the plains, there is a place called Canaan. They say it is lovely; lovelier than the loveliest oasis and greener and richer than the most cultivated Imagination. I have never seen it.

But they also say that the Prince of the place is kind, and He receives any who will come into His land. I have never seen Him, either, but they say He is gentle and kind. I should like to meet Him, to be His subject—but then, my little flock of dreams keeps me here in Imagination, because they are not willing to become part of life to gain Canaan. Of course, I can’t tell them about Canaan. They wouldn’t understand.

It all began one morning when I awoke and came to my oasis, to care for my dreams. I counted them all, like a good shepherd should, and I found one missing. Concerned, I looked behind every bush, and behind every stone. Not finding my missing dream, I looked without, to the vast dusty desert, and saw my little lost dream, trotting along alone in the direction of Canaan.

I need not say that I was excited. I all but forgot the other dreams and rushed after the one, thinking perhaps that I should really make it to Canaan after all.

I hurried along through the sand, trying to catch up with my little dream. It kept up a good pace, but even so I slowly gained on it. Surely, once I caught up with it, we could travel together to Canaan and be received by the Prince of the place.

But then, just before I caught up with my journeying dream, a head rose out of the sand in front of it. A large snake reared back and before I had time to think or to cry out, it had struck my little dream.

The poor little thing cried out in pain, fell to its knees. I rushed forward, shouting in anger. The poisonous beast had done its work and it glided away through the dust.

I dropped to my knees beside my little dream. Its eyes glazed over, it gasped for air, but at last ceased to breathe. I hugged it tightly to me, crying. My first little dream had died.

I carried it back to the oasis and laid it by the pool. I didn’t know what to do with it, now that it was dead. It just laid there in silence, so cold and still, and I sat beside it, unmindful of the other dreams frolicking about me. I wept.

The day wore on and I hadn’t left the side of the little dead dream. As the sun began to dip toward the horizon, I heard a throat cleared. Looking up, half in surprise and still stupefied by grief, I saw through my tear-blinded eyes a Traveller. He looked tired and weary, but a strange and warming sympathy stood in His eyes.

“Who are you?” I asked.

“I am a Traveller,” He replied. “I am looking for a place to sleep and when I heard your cries I came to see what I could do. What has happened?”

“My little dream was headed off for Canaan and then a snake bit it and killed it,” I sobbed, the grief freshening once again.

“Were you following it?”

“Yes, I was.” I swallowed another cry.

“Do you want to go to Canaan, then?” He bent forward, leaning on His staff with a little smile.

I nodded. “But I cannot, not when I have this little flock of dreams.” I buried my face in my hands again.

The Traveller knelt beside me, putting on hand on the stiff dream and another on my shoulder. “I know the grief is great. But you must not leave it here to rot. What will you do with it?”

Do? I hadn’t thought to do anything with it. What does one do with a dead dream?

“I don’t know,” I admitted.

The Traveller pointed toward the setting sun. “Have you made the evening sacrifice yet?”

I frowned. “What evening sacrifice?”

“Have you not heard?” The Traveller smiled. “You say you wish to travel to Canaan someday. In that place, they offer a morning and evening sacrifice of the good things that they have been provided with. There, they offer up dreams and wishes, rights and privileges, morning and evening and they are blessed.”

I looked down at my little dead dream. “How does one make a sacrifice?”

“We build an altar,” the Stranger continued, “and kill the sacrifice. Then we burn it.”

A strange sort of horror—and longing—welled up in my throat. “Burn it?” I whispered.

He nodded. “Only then is it truly a sacrifice, you see. It must be completely offered.”

I sat in silence, staring at my dead dream. I thought about what the Traveller had said. “Well,” I said at last, “it is already dead. Are you sure that I can’t just keep it here?”

He shook his head. “You may, if you like, but it wouldn’t be best. Soon the whole place will fill with such a vile smell that it may do you everlasting harm.”

I didn’t want that. “Will you show me how to build the altar?” I asked.

“Of course.” He smiled and lifted me to my feet.

In a short time, the Stranger showed me how to fit the stones together in a strong tower. He gathered some wood from my little encampment not far away and lit a fire upon the stones. He motioned to me now.

I stood to the side, holding my dream. And although I had asked for His help, somehow I couldn’t move. Tears sprung to my eyes as I watched the flames lick upwards, knowing that in a moment all of what had been my dear little dream would be consumed and gone forever.

A hand touched my arm. “It is time.” The Stranger’s voice sounded with pity, but definite purpose. “Come.”

I moved woodenly toward the flames and hugged my dream tighter to me. At last I looked up at Him. “I can’t…” I whispered, voice trailing off.

He smiled. “If you will let Me, I will help you.”

I nodded.

He put His arms around me and put His hands on mine. Together, we lifted the dream and placed it on the altar.

In that moment, it didn’t matter to me that I knew the Man so little. I turned about, unwilling to watch the final demise of my dream and seized Him, weeping. He seemed to be used to this sort of thing, and held me while the flames rose higher and higher.

“It is finished,” He said at last.

I turned, expecting to feel the terror and remorse of loss. Instead, I felt peace as I watched a brisk wind swirl the ashes toward the dusky heavens.

“So this is sacrifice?” I asked in a murmur, hardly noticing Him now.

“This is sacrifice,” He replied. “I must be going now: but do not forget what I have told you. I may come by again someday.”

I didn’t even notice Him leave. I was too lost in my thoughts. That night, I didn’t return to the oasis. I slept soundly in my tent, and when I woke I considered starting out for Canaan right away. After all, if the inhabitants were all as the Traveller I had met the night before, what would the Prince Himself be like? I wondered.

But then, I heard a pitiful call. My little flock of dreams was waiting for food. I looked to the horizon, off towards Canaan, and wished—but then, I turned to my oasis and ran to take care of my little flock.

The time passed. I never forgot that first sacrifice, with the strong hands of the Stranger helping mine to lift my dream onto the altar. But as the days grew into months I forgot the sweet peace that followed the conflagration and I remembered only the searing pain of losing my little dream. I vowed to never let any of the other die, and I tended them more faithfully still.

But despite my best efforts, my little flock began to dwindle. One grew old and died. I was sorry, but it wasn’t the shock the first one had been. As I laid it by the pool, the Stranger appeared again. With the same pity as before, He asked what had happened—and He helped me to conduct another evening sacrifice.

This time it wasn’t so hard: I watched the flames take my dream away and I felt only a twinge of pain. This dream grew old and died—and I was at peace watching it go.

But disaster continued to strike. On every hand, my little dreams were vanishing. One or two ran off into the desert: when I found them again, they were mangled and torn, their blood staining the sand. I wept with a violence of grief, dragging them behind me back to the oasis. The Stranger appeared before I reached it and He helped me carry them. As you can probably guess, we conducted another evening sacrifice that night.

This time I couldn’t watch. I was angry. Angry at myself for having let my little dreams wander off, and angry at the voracious beasts that had torn them to pieces. I wanted to seek vengeance. But the Stranger laid a hand on my shoulder and spoke words into my ear, words of peace and release. A heavy sadness replaced the anger, and soon I felt the peace again.

As the years passed and my little flock of dreams grew smaller, I still every day went and looked toward the horizon, toward Canaan. I still wanted to go: and now that the Traveller appeared so often in my oasis and told me stories of the beautiful land where one was always safe under the watchful eye of the Prince, I wanted it even more. Still, my little flock of dreams kept me where I was.

There came a day when my little flock was no more. No, instead, one little dream ran about. It was still tiny, and I treated it as I would have treated a child. I nurtured it, not really thinking it would get very big. But it grew and grew and my love for it grew greater and greater until my longings for Canaan seemed appeased. This little dream, grown so straight and tall, had a lavish amount of my attention and affection.

One evening, I sat stroking my little dream. It was sleeping. As I pondered things, I remembered the days when I had a whole flock. I remembered the first sacrifice the Traveler had helped me to offer. I remembered the ones that had followed—many over the years. I paused, looking down at my slumbering dream. I wanted to go to Canaan, and this one dream held me back. Did I really care for it as well as I thought I did?

I went to the edges of Imagination and stared up at the sky. I began to talk, as if the Prince of Canaan could hear me. “What am I to do? Shall I come? Shall I stay? But how could I leave? Leave my precious little dream to cry for me?”

In my heart I wanted the right, and each evening I began to come out of the oasis, staring heavenward and asking the stars, the skies, and the Prince who, as I thought, couldn’t hear me, what my course should be. For a long time, I received no reply.

But then, on a particularly lovely evening, the Traveler appeared in my oasis. I greeted Him warmly: we knew each other fairly well by now. He sat down beside me, beside my sleeping dream, and listened as I talked. He seemed interested in all I had to say, but it wasn’t until I mentioned my nightly prayers that He leaned in with an intenseness of desire I had never seen before.

“You truly want the right way?” He asked, eyes boring a hole into my soul.

“I truly do,” I nodded. “I have been asking for it for months now.”

He looked over at my sleeping dream. A pit formed in my stomach.

He looked back at me. “I have the answer you’ve been asking for. But first I must know if you truly want the right way. Are you willing to go the right way, no matter what it may cost?”

I looked at my hands. I looked over at my dream, sleeping so peacefully. Somehow I knew He was talking about that dream, that the cost would somehow involve it. I had been asking for an answer, true—but I had hoped all along that if the Prince would summon me, that I would be able to travel with my dream. I knew it was strong enough for the journey, and oh, how blessed it would be to be in Canaan with it!

I looked back at the Traveler. He smiled. I nodded, feeling some excitement. “I do want the right way. I do.”

The Stranger nodded. He moved over to the dream, and I thought surely He was going to awaken it, to rouse it so we could begin the journey right away.

But then, in the still evening, I watched the Stranger pull a knife from His robe, lift the head of my dream and silently slit its throat. The dream died instantly, without giving so much as a cry.

In horror and confusion, I stared. The Stranger turned to me, His posture speaking sorrow for me. I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. All I could see was my last precious dream: the dream I’d tended so long: the dream that had grown hardy and strong and I had longed to travel to Canaan with: this dream, dead and bleeding onto the ground of my oasis.

For a time, neither of us spoke. He first broke the silence. “It is time for the evening sacrifice.”

I looked up at Him in bewilderment. It began to sink in: my last dream was dead. And now the Stranger wanted me to offer it up on the altar. Tears filled my eyes as I sat speechless, staring at Him from within a prison of grief.

Then, the storm burst. I leaped to my feet, dashed across to my dream and catched it up to me. I stormed in sorrow, wept until I thought I should choke myself, but I could not find a solace. The blood from my dream seeped into my tattered clothes. I hugged it close, dropping to my knees, still sobbing aloud. “Why?” I asked, struggling to make myself heard amid my cries. “Why must it die? This wasn’t the answer I wanted! Why could I not bring it with me? It wasn’t a bad dream; it was strong and healthy. Oh why must it die?”

The Stranger remained silent for a long time. He let me weep. When at last some of the grief had subsided, I looked up at the Man who had taken my dream’s life. To my surprise, He stood weeping too. “I am so sorry,” He said, in a voice near a whisper. “But you asked for the right: and it was given.”

I buried my face in the blood-stained coat of my dream.

“It is time for the evening sacrifice,” the Stranger continued. “Will you bring your last dream and lay it on the altar?”

Horrible, seething pain burst out from my heart and consumed my strength. To think of my last, cherished dream going up in smoke—to see it turned to ashes and float away with the wind—I couldn’t bear. Through sorrow-dimmed memory I recalled the first sacrifice I had offered: the pain, the burning, and the peace. This was different. A wild animal hadn’t attacked my dream. It hadn’t grown old and died. Nor had I turned it out and released it myself. No, instead I had watched One I loved take its life. This was a different sort of sacrifice, and I wasn’t sure I could do it.

“I don’t think I can…” My voice caught, my grip on the dream tightened.

The Stranger came to me and put an arm around me, resting one hand on the head of the dream. “If you will let Me, I will help you.”

I couldn’t speak. I looked down at the hand on the head of my still and silent dream. And for the first time, I noticed the scar.

“Where did that come from?” I asked.

I heard Him smile. “From a dream of My own.”

Now I looked back at Him. “You have had a dream? Yourself?”

He nodded, eyes resting on somewhere far away. “I had a dream, a dream that I loved very much. An enemy stole it and threatened it with death. In reobtaining My dream, I gained these scars.”

I looked at the scar. “It must’ve meant very much to You,” I said at last.

“It did. And it still does. But directly as I had regained my stolen dream, I offered it up on an altar.”

Now I was really surprised. “You risked Your life to get Your dream; and then You offered it up?” I couldn’t understand this.

“Yes, and it was given back to Me; brighter and more glorious than it was at the first.” He smiled. “If you can believe, so too shall it be with you.”

I looked down at the dream in my arms. I looked out at the silhouette of the altar against the setting sun. And I looked back at the Stranger. “Help me,” I whispered.

Together, we took the dream and carried it. We laid it on the altar and this time, He handed me the fire. “You must conduct it yourself, Child.”

Tears flowing freely, I gripped the flaming brand. Several times I moved it forward, ready to light the pile, but each time I faltered and drew back, more tears and cries bursting from me. At last I turned to the Man who stood watching. “Oh please, can’t You light it? I just can’t.”

“You must,” He said. “But I will help you, if You will let me.”

He came up behind me, and put His hand around mine. Together, we moved the brand forward and then the pile caught fire.

I cried while the fire raged. He held me again, til the smoke ascended and the ashes swirled heavenward. I watched them go, but I didn’t feel the peace yet. “Where is it?” I asked tearily. “Where is the peace? Doesn’t sacrifice bring peace?”

He nodded, an arm still around me. “Yes, it does. But often, the greatest sacrifices are made without an immediate reward of peace following.”

I looked down at the sand. A tear drop fell and made a little wet spot at my feet.

“Are you ready now?”

I looked up at Him. “Ready? For what?”

“Canaan.” His voice trembled with eagerness.

“Canaan.” I tested the word on my tongue again, as if it were brand new. “Canaan…?”

“You are unhampered by your little flock of dreams now,” He said gently. “Your last one has died tonight so that I could take you there Myself.”

Speechless, I stared at Him.

He continued. “If you will let Me, I will guide you through the desert to Canaan. I know the way very well. You see, Canaan and the purchase of those who live there was the dream that I risked all to save. I am the Prince.”

My eyes grew wider still. This Man, in the simple garb of a traveler, the Prince? The Majesty of Canaan? The Master of Dreams?

“How have You suffered so long with me?” I cried. “Why did You not tell me who You were and commanded me to come at once, all those years ago? And yet You have returned and taught me. I do not deserve it!” I pulled away from Him now in shame.

He did not let me go. “My Child, I have taught you here lessons you will keep in your heart forever. You now know the true spirit of sacrifice—a spirit that animates all who live in Canaan. I did not want you to be out of place among My subjects. We have a long journey ahead of us, but a few years is nothing to Me, if I have taught you aright and you will come with me now.”

I broke into tears again. “I feel so ungrateful,” I sobbed into His shoulder. “I was angry with you sometimes for making me offer up my dreams on the altar, even after they were dead. And even now, my heart still hurts with the loss of this one. How could I be a faithful subject when I am so ungrateful?”

He lifted my chin and dried a few tears away. He smiled through His own tears. “Sorrow is not ungratefulness. Sorrow is natural when we lose something we have loved, even a dream. Your sorrow is not wrong: but it will become a snare if you remain here, sorrowing for what you have lost. We must move forward.”

I glanced backwards to my oasis. But only once.

The Prince pointed at my clothes. “You cannot travel in these. I have some new clothes for you.”

I looked down at my blood-stained, tattered garments. I surely didn’t want these anymore. But the blood was the last reminder I had of my dream…

“What will I do with these?” I asked, as He dug in His pack. “They still remind me of…”

“We will burn them,” He replied, straightening. He handed me a suit of white. “If you are willing, these will be your new clothes and we will burn the old ones.”

It was easier than I had thought to lay the clothes on the altar and watch them burn.

At dawn we started off. From the top of a sandy ridge I looked back towards my oasis—but I stopped short. “Look!” I cried, pointing. “What has happened?”

My oasis was gone.

The Prince stood next to me, looking down on the little camp in the desert that we had left. “It was a mirage, My Child. I came to rescue you from the desert, not from a pleasant green oasis.”

Tears stood in my eyes. I felt His scarred hand take mine, and He turned me Eastward. “Come,” He said, stepping forward. “It is time. Let us go.”

And we went.