Sometimes, I like to dream.
I dream of a neat clean little house, of which I am mistress.
I dream of little children, clustering around my knees; singing their baby songs; dancing through my backyard; playing with the dogs; growing up fearless, sure, strong, beautiful; and loving God more than their own breath.
I dream of moving surely in my own kitchen, positive of where everything is and of what I want to do and of the results of my attempts at cooking.
I dream of trees which my hands helped to plant, waving their leaves far over my head as I tip my face back and attempt to see their tops . . . and can't.
And I dream of a man-- handsome, strong, playful, trustworthy, godly-- coming home to me, with his wide grin and his good hands; scooping my-- our-- babies up into his arms and spinning spinning spinning with them as I watch and laugh in pure delight; putting his arms all the way around me and snuggling me into his chest and kissing my mouth and rocking me until I forget all the worries and troubles that niggled at my soul all day long; settling children on his lap and me against his shoulder as he opens the Word of God and soaks it in with the rest of us.
Sometimes I like to dream.
But then I remember other things . . .
Like the wind in the olive trees in Israel.
Like the dust-speckled faces of the dark babies in South Africa.
Like the burning of the Middle Eastern sun on the top of my head.
Like the troubled hearts of the teens at my PA church.
Like the rippling beauty of multiple accents, all speaking a common pidgined-tongue together.
Like the heart-breaking emptiness in the eyes of the elderly veterans at the assisted living center.
Like the rough yet empowering way of moving through Jerusalem.
Like the bubbly laughter of bright-eyed Russian orphans.
Like the way my throat swells with emotion at ha'Kotel.
Like the courage I discovered while I was single and "alone," while God was my only company and my only motivation.
And I wonder if my set of neat clean Americanized dreams is really ever going to come true.
Or if it's what I really want.
I don't know. Will I ever know?
Sometimes . . .
I like to dream . . .
