The Death of a Dream

I found a little seed one day, no larger than a crumb,
It was just a thought, a fleeting dream—but what might it become?

So I tucked it in my heart, planted deep and still,
And waited wishful, day by day, imagining, until…

Bright one dawn I woke to find, the seed within my heart
Had sprouted shoots, extended roots, invaded every part.

It climbed the corners of my soul, it flowered in my mind,
Oh, the possibility, fragility entwined.

I loved my dream. It was, to me, both ecstasy and ache,
A fetal hope, unformed, and yet alive in me; awake!

Then on an ordinary day, with nothing else amiss,
A storm blew through and flung my dream into the great abyss.

It plucked it from my heart just like a weed caught in the wind,
Fractured in the angry air as though it’d never been.

How do you mourn what’s not yet born? What never truly lived—
The dreams that die, the dark night’s cry for the things God did not give?

My heart was hollow. Vacant. Numb. So I asked if Jesus might
Climb inside the emptiness and hold me through the night.

Within His humble arms I found my sorrow’s full release,
And sometime in the midnight watch, a quiet, steady peace.

“Be the Gardener of my soul,” I whispered in His ear.
“Till the longings, plant the dreams, take away the fear.”

In that moment (to my shock) the prayer I’d dreaded most—
Those daunting words, “Your will be done,” became my treasured boast.

For human hands weren’t meant to hold universal power,
But just to hold the hand of God through joy and darkest hour.