I’ve never paid much attention to dreams. Those faux wood wall decor pieces reading “Dream” in a sweet swirly script– not interested. And I’m not talking about the standard once-your-head-hits-the-pillow kind of dreams either. I’m talking about the kind that your mind wanders toward when you’re washing the dishes or putting away laundry. The dreams that make the mundane bearable because this tiny secret hope is tucked away deep in your heart. Unfortunately, I never really had that *dream* to keep me company. But I had vision.
Now vision, vision meant everything. Depth. Greatness. Purpose. Drive. Changing-the-world-style vision. That’s what I had. It was drilled into me. Day-in and day-out for a full year it was hammered into my vernacular so much so that I measured the worth of others by the extent of their “vision” too.
It was ugly. It was consuming. And I can’t say that it really spurred me on to love people the way that Jesus loves people. What it did was cause me anxiety over figuring out how I could someday love people by living out my bigger-than-life, move-to-the-other-side-of-the-world, filled-with-purpose vision.
I missed out on dreams because I had “tunnel” vision.
After all, dreams were without vision and void of purpose, right? Since dreams distracted us from vision, I couldn’t waste my thoughts, my time or my life on dreams without feeling intensely guilty. So by the time I was 20, my dreams were shelved in lieu of a vision-filled mission. Dreaming became dirty. Almost shameful. I didn’t even realize that I was missing out on anything.
But I was…
(to be continued tomorrow)