Did you ever have a dream? I did. It is not what I dream now. I imagine back to myself as a child. I hold a picture frame and I barely recognize my face. Who is that care free, bubbly child? Bobbed straight hair, hazel almond eyes, round button nose, pursed lips-it is me, but I don’t see my face there. Long wavy hair, intense eyes with worry lines, creased wrinkled nose, troubled lip-it is me, but it’s not the face I want to see. Where is that picture inside? It is somewhere beneath the years of life? Concrete strength of endurance built from worry buries it. It is not dead, but only buried. She never dreamed of being grown. Growing into someone who wants to look right, sound right; no she wanted to be Right. Be is more key than right. It was not about how I could have compared to someone else or what she didn’t have; it was about what she could touch: touch tree, touch rock, touch horse and dog, touch sister, sister, brother, sister, touch dad, hold mom. I could feel life. The plastic and paper were empty then. They were objects of play; not a card and a bill that choke me for separation from the world as they seem to do now. They ask what I would have; now I say, “plastic,” then I would have said “ um hah I dunno. Mom?” She used to crawl on soft, petal colored knees into the corner of her closet. There was a plastic, yellow table with a Bible on it. They told her to find Him in her secret place; “GO TO THE PRAYER CLOSET,” they said. She took it literally; she wanted to know him. She had seen Him in her doorway at night and heard His voice in her head. “Oh hey, well today I was play’n, I said something mean to Hamilton, but he was being annoying, but I know I shouldn have um sorry-I wont do it again. Talk to me and tell me secrets, not the ones you told other people. Help me learn the bible and do good in school, oh and at soccer-let me score a goal-I want to make you happy-let Kelli get saved-maybe I can tell her? Help me Jesus to be nice, give me good dreams-thank you for my family and toys-I love you!”-that is how her brief prayers often went. But, she believed. She didn’t doubt she was being heard or question whether she should be praying about something else. Her heart spoke. Simple, sweet-she was closer to him then. I went back to the closet. I didn’t have my table, but I found him there. In the cramped, cold or hot, space, he waits there. In her four by four space she would sing. Once she wrote a song when she was twelve: “I am lost and alone, who can I trust, no one, but you-All of my feelings are bound inside, who can unwrap them and reveal what I hide? Only you and you alone-all I have is yours and yours to own, Everything to you I give, you are my hope, all the day long-Everyday your unbelievable in everything you say, only you give life with everlasting love, so I will run and I will cry out, singing hear I am in your arms, tell me I’m your child and I’m out of harm-Everything to you I give, you are my Hope, all the day long.” Sometimes, the melody comes back and pushes her into those moments. She thinks to herself; “I had nothing to worry about then-I was singing those songs to the me of today-to this girl who needs to trust.” I sing again now. I don’t know if the words and music will ever become anything more, but I know they are who I am. My heart sang a song with my head on the yellow, plastic table; now it sings again with my head in my hands or staring at the cars in front of me through my bug speckled window. She sang to Him then; I sing to Him now. In black tights and a red polka dot top, she ran in the woods. She dreamt about a Garden. It was just she and he; she would sing. Dreams were her reality; flying in the sky, seeing the world, preaching to billions like Kenneth Copeland, healing the sick like Benny Henn, traveling the world like Rhinehart Bonky, singing her own songs for Him; Twirl, Spin, Close your eyes in the Wind-look down from the tree-laugh at the coolness of the river on your skin-imagine living in the woods alone in a tree-house with only books for companions-riding horses bareback through endless grain fields-wearing no shoes to let the mud sink in between ten toes-writing books like Jane Austin-feeding orphans in Haiti, Ethiopia, and Cambodia-living and discovering like David Livingstone -these are her dreams; this is Being Right. It is in the Garden where she found Him and finds Him. He told her once, “give me everything, make me everything, and you will do the impossible, see the unimaginable-you will know me and I will be the ONE.” She wrote it in her journal as she looked at the Pacific Ocean from her window seat. I read it sometimes. I haven’t done that, but I want to. I want the secret of me when I was her. She was unaware of man, she only wanted Him. Come back to me. I will walk back to you. Step back-left first-right follow-back, “but I cant see,” (keep going the Voice says)-to that place where it’s just you and me-the place where our faces meet in the mirror. The place where I hold that picture frame, touch it with my tiny forefinger and say, “there, (here) I am-this is me.” Back to simple Dreams. Back to the Closet. Back to the Garden. Back to Her first Love. Back to real Reality.
