I have been in the in-between for so long. Like being stuck in the dusk before dawn. Like being stuck on that tightrope suspended between cliffs. Suspended in air on that high wire, with nothing supporting me but hope.
Looking backwards is so very dangerous, it threatens the balancing act that keeps me stable.
Looking forward is so very languishing, it threatens my focus and vision.
Looking down is so very disorienting, it threatens certainty of plummeting hope.
Living out a precarious existence, nothing certain, everything dependent on my ever strengthening faith muscles to keep me from falling into nothingness. Dreaming of the other side is what kept me moving forward. Step by step. Inch by inch. It's what made the in-between doable.
And then, it's there. I look down and land is just one step away. Taking that last step onto solid ground, suddenly I feel a release in my chest, like I was holding my breath and didn't know it. Suddenly I have the feeling of incredible freedom, I have space to breathe and space to move like I haven't in over a decade. For a moment, all I could do is stare down at my feet, this ledge (with the chasm still slightly in view) and take it all in.
I made it to the other side.
Then I look up to take in the view of what had awaited me all this time. It takes me by surprise, the nothingness. It's not so much barren as empty and foggy, nothing of form or substance. I really had no idea what to expect upon arrival, but this was not it. I knew what would not be here, but that still left so much possibility of what could be here. My anticipation leaked rapidly.
So, what happens when the other side looks like nothing you dreamed of? When the dream has to die and make way for reality.
Five years ago, God showed me through John 12 that for something new to come about, something old has to die. A seed falls to the ground, but it becomes a new plant bearing many seeds. At the time, He was answering my doubt-filled questions about a miscarriage a few years earlier. And in fact, many new dreams did grow out of that death, some that became very fruitful. I just thought the death was over now that I had released that dream.
And so I asked God about this land of emptiness, what do I do with this? And He whispered, "You are now on solid ground, you have land beneath your feet. You now have the room to spread out, to put down roots. You now own a place to plant and harvest. It isn't about what the land looks like, grass grows green where you water it."
And so here I am again, burying a dream that I know is a seed. I've learned this lesson. This time I don't need to spend years wrestling with the loss to understand. This time I don't need to doubt God's desire to give me a fruitful life. This time I don't need to worry about what is next.
This time I know what part of the story I am sitting in.
I am experiencing a reflection of the death and resurrection we just commemorated at Easter, very similar to the symbolism of baptism. My 'other side', that new ground, is the soil I have to bury all my dreams in. I have to commit them fully into God's hands. And now I am sitting in Silent Saturday, waiting once again for the hope of the other side.
This time I know I am waiting for the other side of death, a new dawn, with the resurrection of a new dream. Not just a new dream, a glorified dream, one that makes the most of all those buried longings watered with years of tears. The new dream won't be perfect, it will still have it's challenges and struggles. Such is life.
After all, we are always waiting for the hope and perfection of the final other side.
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