Dreaming Or Dying.

One of my dad's sayings, which has become my heartbeat and stake is, "When you stop dreaming, you start dying."

Why?

Because I'm a dreamer.  I live in the world of "what could be" and usually churn in what is.  I love to think of ideas, to ponder thoughts, to plan vacations, to propose decor, to dream illusions of the greatest friendships, the most fulfilling careers, the perfect dinner parties in life.

Why?

Because, otherwise, I die. I die inside.  I crinkle, crumble, crash.  I fold into a million pieces and drop down.  I become flat.  I become lifeless.  I become a raisin.

But when I dream, I sparkle.  I feel life.  I feel hope.  I feel that there is better yet to come.  That I will taste the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living (Psalm 27:13).  When I dream life, I blog like my fingers haven't left the keys for months, I talk like there is great expectation, and I pursue life like there is a reason to wake.

I can dream about flying to Kenya, decorating nurseries, traveling to Kate and her girls, packing for Milwaukee.  I can dream about making a great meal, backpacking Provence, interviewing for a job.  (Is it terrible - I love interviews?  I always feel good, confident, and ready to take on the world in them!  I texted Mark today:  "I think I'm an entrepreneur:  I love the challenge of getting jobs and writing cover letters, and starting the job.  Just not keeping it."  Oh dear, must be the dreamer in me, creating a whole.)

Dreams keep me living.  Dreams keep me striving.

Daily life gets me old.  Gets me frowned face.  Gets me narrow and hallow and sad and lonely.

But dreaming about good things to come keeps me moving, keeps me going.  Keeps me looking for more.

I know there is a strong spot for contentment, and sermons to come.  But today, I'm thankful for my dad, and his permission to dream.

So instead of dying, I dream.