At a retreat, we were given a challenge to dream bigger than normal, to dream Jesus-sized dreams, things only He could do, things He delights in doing. The retreat instructor offered us time to pray and write down those courageous, adventuresome dreams.
I wrote in pencil, not only because writing in pen seemed arrogant, but because no dream is worth it if God isn’t in it. I needed more time to listen to Jesus stirring in my heart through His Holy Spirit.
Two days after returning home from the retreat, life got messy. It started with a grease fire in the kitchen. The smoke, soot, and extinguisher dust scattered to every corner of the house. The cleanup took three weeks.
The crew put a rush on it because my husband was hospitalized that same night, had surgery the next day, and spent more than a week in Room 530, Bed 1. He spent the following many months in a back brace and used crutches the brief times he could be out of bed or off the couch.
“My dreams went up in smoke,” I whimpered. I didn’t even know where those pages were anymore.
Jesus–the epitome of Truth–seemed to whisper something profound to my spirit. “No, they didn’t. They’re in the garage.”
I’d hastily thrown office items into bins and hauled them to the garage when the fire remediation crew cleaned and painted the office. My dreams didn’t go up in smoke. They were temporarily relocated. To the garage.
