Thursday, 14 April 2011
The tyranny of my heart (on surrendering hopes and dreams)
You might know by now that if I’m quiet for a few days, it’s because I’m getting up the nerve to say something. When I write here, my whole heart is on display. So if I can’t quite bring myself to speak, you may as well know I’m wrestling with something, working it out, turning it over in my hand (or running from it).
And you know? I’m still not quite ready to put it out there. Because it’s about a dream of mine. It’s a precious, sweet dream I’ve held onto for years and I think — I’m almost sure — that God is asking me to let it go. And this time, it means saying goodbye.
I’ve written a post or two, I’ve drafted emails, but they all sit here with me unsent, hidden from view.
And then there’s the other dream I have, the one about writing, and I’m going to that conference, and from experience I can be pretty sure that God wants that dream too.
Like almost all of my Big Life Lessons, I can tie these themes back to our adoptions and what I (thought I) learned.
Throughout our adoption processes, God has gently and consistently asked me to give the dreams over to him. It’s not that he wants to end them, or that he wants them in selfishness — I can see now that it’s about love. He sees my heart and how dreams held too tightly can begin to weigh it down, poison it. He says to me, full of compassion, “Sweet girl. You know I don’t want you to be bent low under all that weight. Just hand those dreams to me and I’ll carry them for you.”
He does it with all the things I hold a little too close, the gifts and hopes that I grasp for and start trying to control. He sees what I’m doing, and he knows it’s an illusion; it’s the path to death. He wants me to live in freedom — a freedom only possible if I open my hand and let go, when I surrender the tyranny of my heart for him.
But it’s hard because I know. I know what that means. When he gives those dreams back, they might be completely different. When he answers my prayer, it might be opposite my expectation. It’s not the dream I don’t want to let go. It’s the hope in what I want to happen.
This dream, the one that he’s asking for now, is one I thought I’d already given to him; I thought I’d surrendered it. But now when it looks like it’s coming to an end, I find I was still grasping. I think I just need to hold it for another day or two. And I’m thankful he has enough compassion and patience to wait for me.