After the Death of a Dream

After the Death of a Dream

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When my husband and I left Freiburg ten years ago, I thought it was the last time I would feel smooth, curved German cobblestones under the arches of my feet.

On those carefully placed stones, each one connected to the other, I once walked regularly until my legs hurt. In that city, I learned to ride a bike in a sea of traffic, the signal of my outstretched arm as effective as a car’s blinking red light. The smell of cigarette smoke, coffee breath, and fresh rain on stone and concrete will always remind me of some of my deepest conversations with those in Freiburg about who Jesus is and how He loves them.

The memories I kept of that unique city were like evocative pictures etched with joy and ache. Joy for the gift of having lived there as a foreigner, a learner, and a minister, waking to the wonder of finding God’s face in a culture that wasn’t my own but undoubtedly His. Ache for the way it has always reminded me of a dream that died.

We had felt so sure about the call to ministry on our lives even before we got married. It was the very thing that first connected us as a couple, the thing that took us from one address and assignment to another and eventually to Freiburg. Freiburg was one of our last stops, the last clear call we heard from God, our last hope to see if something in ministry might actually work out for us in the long haul. But what had once felt like the greatest purpose of our lives — both as individuals and as a couple — started to seem like wearing clothes in the wrong size. We wrestled to make it fit, constantly adjusting and readjusting the way we looked at the future.

After Freiburg, we moved back to the States and left full-time ministry, a move that led us slowly and gently into wilderness and silence.

We clung to each other as we wrestled through the wake of dreams dying. There were days of melancholy and longing, repeated prayers of pleading to be called back to what was, tearful nights and quiet, lonely dinners. It terrified me when these days piled up, one after another, seemingly void of God’s voice and any clear leading other than to love each other and try to build something together no matter how simple. The nagging feeling that we were doing something wrong or that we ourselves were wrong and not good enough to be in ministry followed me around like a ugly shadow. The silence of that season uncovered my belief that being in ministry was evidence of God’s favor, love, and delight.

But about three weeks ago, after years of walking in wilderness and then more years of being invited to birthing and building new dreams, we went back. I watched our kids walk on Freiburg’s cobblestone streets, making up games about which stones to step on and which to step over. I witnessed their eyes, fresh with curiosity and discovery, take in new scenery. I witnessed their mouths, trying new tastes and textures, receiving some and rejecting others. They tried communicating with new sounds and symbols and their view of the world stretched wider than it had been. Seeing their delight was like a spring resurrection of an old dream long gone being made into something colorful, vibrant, and new.

One afternoon on our trip, I met an old friend for a latte macchiato. As she and I sat across from each other, she went on to tell me that the years we met regularly to talk about who Jesus was and how to study the Bible gave her a sure foundation for her longstanding faith and the faith of her family today. I listened while taking bites of Apfelkuchen, her words and the rain crashing outside like a thousand pieces of all the things I thought were lost now here again, piling into puddles of what was and what can be.

I am amazed by the story God was writing all along and grateful for a glimpse of it after so many years of questioning and wondering what had gone wrong. As our kids splashed in the cool bächle streams that run throughout the city center, I marveled at our daughter’s laughter and contentment – her story unfolding before my eyes and in our family, now connected to Germany herself. Adoption hadn’t even been on our radar the last time we had stood there with those very stones under our feet. I saw then what I couldn’t see ten years ago: the death of my dream was not the death of God’s dreams for me.

Maybe you are facing the same death or facing the wilderness of waiting for an answer. Maybe right now nothing makes sense and you’re questioning who you are or how you fit. Behind the veil of silent seasons, loss, drudgery, and dreams come undone, know that you are deeply loved and delighted in. God is at work. He is building new things in you and for you and these days of wrestling, each one placed one after another like cobblestone, will serve to build a beautiful path forward. There are new things to come.

When You Wish You Were the Orange Tree

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One of our neighbors down the street has a tree that turns a brilliant orange every fall. I love driving toward my house and looking up to see those brightly colored leaves; it makes me smile every time.

Sometimes, though, my eyes drift toward the big tree in the corner of my own yard. The one with boring yellow leaves, always turning later than the others on the street.

And I can’t help but wish I had my own orange-leaved tree.

My favorite fall leaf color is bright orange — the red-orange, not the yellow-orange. Something about the brilliance of the hue or the contrast with a bright blue fall sky makes my heart beat a little faster.

At times, I find myself coveting my neighbor’s tree full of orange leaves, but I also find myself wishing I could be the orange tree.

I wish I could be the tree full of vibrant leaves, early in the season, catching every passing eye among a line of plain green or yellow plants.

I wish I could be the one that everyone stops to admire, pauses to photograph, smiles at, and feels inspired to appreciate this season, this miracle of God’s creation.

I wish I could be the orange tree.

But is it possible that being the orange tree isn’t all it’s cracked up to be?

What about that yellow tree, the one that takes its time turning into something other than plain, something not-so-common? Its metamorphosis might come later than the other trees on the block, but when it does, it stands out all the more against the harsh, empty branches of its neighbors. It stands proud in the corner of my yard, finally getting its chance to shine, full of light, color, and nature.

Or how about those red trees? You can’t miss them, although — at least in our area — they aren’t all that common. They’re usually the smaller trees and the bushes, the ones that are most likely overlooked every other month of the year. But come October and November, they are set on fire, burning bright and beautiful in their own way.

And then there are the pale orange trees, those yellow-orange ones I specifically labeled “not my favorite.” They don’t have the contrast the red-orange ones do with the blue autumn sky, but put them in a crowd of darker-hued trees, and wow, do they pop! Even though my brain knows those trees bear only leaves, my eyes always think they are offering flowers — buds of life that glow against the darker shades of the crowd.

Speaking of the darker shades of the crowd . . . evergreens don’t get the joy of bursting into multi-colored flames every fall. No, they stay green as their name indicates, steady and solid throughout the changing seasons. They anchor the hillside and the tapestry God paints for us, standing back to let the rainbow of oaks and maples and fruit trees own the stage.

Just yesterday I noticed one more color I’d overlooked before. Some trees’ leaves turn a dark, burnt orange early on. And when the rainy days turn the sky slate gray, those dark orange leaves fly stark against the dreary backdrop, creating a visual drama that the happy, shiny leaves simply can’t pull off.

Can you believe God created all these different trees with all their different gifts for us?

Then God said, “Let the land sprout with vegetation — every sort of seed-bearing plant, and trees that grow seed-bearing fruit. These seeds will then produce the kinds of plants and trees from which they came.” And that is what happened . . . And God saw that it was good.
Genesis 1:11-12

Of course, He did. And He did the same with us.

Maybe you’re not the brilliant orange tree, turning early and shining bright. Maybe your leaves are a more subtle shade or change later in the season — or even not at all.

Perhaps you’ve spent months or years feeling small and overlooked and you can’t imagine a day when you burn red and dazzle those who see you peeking out from the corner or from under those other big trees.

It’s possible you’ll only find your gifts show up during the dreary days, in a crowd, or as you support those around you. Or maybe you are an orange tree, and your day to turn just hasn’t arrived yet.

No matter what kind of tree you are, you are magnificent.

You’re a masterpiece drawn by the Creator of all, designed for just the right time.

And you shine.

Don’t envy the orange tree . . . or the red one . . . or the evergreen or the yellow leaves or the clever tree with several shades showing at once.

No, stand tall and reach high with your unique colors and seasons and far-reaching branches and roots.

You are exactly the tree you were created to be.