As I mentioned in part 1, one area of my grief has been the temptation to abandon my dreams and passions before failure. It’s been a ten-year battle. And there was a time when I did completely give up, and thought them to be dead.
It’s been one year since the conversation took place that led to God resurrecting the dreams and passions He gave me. Even still, one year later, I struggle wrestle with moving forward. I live in fear that these dreams and passions will die another death. I waver between having a death grip on them and abandoning them before they can be taken.
In the chapter “God’s Patchwork, My Passion,” Lynn describes the death of some of her dreams. She writes about discovering a box full of her childhood treasures, and how as she worked her way through the box, she could see the pattern God traced through her life: I was beginning to see who I really was. These youthful writing remnants and journal jottings, though rough and ragged around the edges, were the missing pieces of my “purpose pattern”–a tatterdemalion testament of a dream slowly shaping, a dream to write.
As I read that chapter, I cried the ugly cry. You know…face distorted, salty tears mixed with snot running into my mouth, heaving sobs. And I remembered a trunk in my garage. I collected myself enough to ask Mark to get the trunk off the shelf, as well as open it for me since I’d long ago lost the key to unlock it.
I sat in the middle of the garage, exploring the contents of the trunk. It was filled with items from my early childhood right up until I married. There were event ticket stubs, diaries, newspaper clippings, many research papers, awards, photos, and letters.
But I was shocked to find a notebook filled with nothing but music interests and poetry. There was page after page of song lyrics. I’d forgotten that I used to sit and write the lyrics to my favorite songs. This was before the I could perform an internet search, and print them out. I would sit and listen to songs on cassette tapes, stop the music, write the lyrics, and start again. I must’ve spent hours of my life doing that.
There were also many, many pages of song titles and band names. I would sit and list every song or band I could think of. Hundreds and hundreds of them.
There were quite a few poems and short stories I’d written. In addition, I found a few of my own attempts at lyric writing.
Once again, I cried the ugly cry. A broken, weepy mess, I could finally see the pattern of my life. It has always revolved around music and writing.
When the dream died several years ago, I had no idea what God was doing. I realize now that my idea of how the dream should be fulfilled was limited. I probably would’ve never written a song; I probably would’ve never sung beyond the church walls; and I would’ve shared a watered-down, boxed-in view of God.
I can agree with Lynn’s words, I believe that when God let my old desires die, He was doing a new thing, a good thing, a better thing.
I can’t say that I won’t wrestle with these dreams and passions again tomorrow, but for today, I’m holding tightly to the joy that God gives when He makes all things new.
To hear the songs that came through the death and resurrection of my dreams and passions, visit The Listening Room.
