Field of Dreams

I’m currently leaning back in my squeaky chair and looking out my second story office window. It’s a great view that overlooks a local school’s football field, and further up on the ridge is the western boundary of a partially scorched Black Forest.

A little more than three months ago, I watched out this same window as helicopters armed with giant buckets tried desperately to squelch the hellacious flames that were roaring out of control in the forest, less than two miles from where I was sitting. It was a scene right out of a movie, and unfortunately a scene right out of my memory.

Twelve months prior—almost exactly to the day—I watched as a different wildfire rudely barged into our city limits and left a path of destruction that left hundreds of people without homes. It was a sight I had hoped I would never witness again, but sadly my eyes were viewing something that seemed to be an instant replay from the previous year. 

Today’s window view is quite different. I just watched as a young boy (probably 3^rd grade) dressed in a red polo and tan khakis, ran with a football, dodged imaginary tacklers, and did a spin move into the end zone. He spiked the ball with as much strength as he could muster, and he lifted his arms in celebration as the imaginary crowd chanted his name. He thought nobody was looking, but I gave him a standing ovation from my office. It was, again, a scene right out of my memory.

Watching the young boy dream about making would be tacklers look foolish reminded me of my childhood. I would often ride my bike to the local football field, put on cleats that were two sizes too big, and pretend I was suddenly orchestrating a historic fourth-quarter comeback in front of 75,000 screaming Notre Dame crazies. 

I’m assuming khaki boy and me aren’t the only two who have ever acted out such audacious dreams. I recently went on a run and witnessed a young boy playing basketball in his front driveway. He dribbled between his legs and attempted a turn-around buzzer beater—which he missed badly.  He was quick to allow room in his imagination for one more second on the clock in order to sprint to the hoop and kiss the ball off the backboard for the real winning bucket. He, too, threw his arms in the air and celebrated—and then tried to act cool as he realized somebody had actually witnessed his heroics.

His dream wasn't about to end in failure.What kid dreams of coming up short? Not once did I get tackled short of the goal line as time expired in my dreams--nor did I see the young boy today get flattened by an imaginary Brian Urlacher. He scored every time, and he celebrated with vigor after every score.

 Isn’t it interesting that kids have a natural capacity to dream big? Not only do they dream, but they dream about victory and beauty. Little boys dream about being the hero and little girls dream about being the beautiful princess.  

And then they grow up.

Don’t get me wrong—adults still dream. We still harbor in our hearts a picture of what the future will look like, but the nature of the picture changes drastically as we get older. Beauty and victory often disappear, and instead the colors become more dark and dreary. It’s almost as if the paintbrush changes hands and a new artist begins his work.

Mark Twain once penned, “I have lived through some terrible things in my life, some of which actually happened.” 

Isn’t this easy to allow? We buy into a picture of the future that gives far too much room for fear and worry. Somewhere along the way we subconsciously ask the Master Artist to put down His paintbrush, and we allow the enemy to paint a safer picture that doesn’t require faith or hope. 

It feels safe because we all know that hope is risky business. Hope involves jostling your heart from its slumber and putting its neck on the line. And besides, this is hostile territory. Tragedy strikes. Houses burn. Jobs vanish.  Relationships crumble—and so do city walls. 

The Bible tells a story about a courageous man who carried a big dream in the midst of tragic circumstances. Nehemiah heard the report that Jerusalem’s walls had been broken down and its gates burned. When he heard the news, he sat down and wept for days. He mourned and fasted, and then he prayed and began to dream about rebuilding a wall and a city.

I’m intrigued by his ability to seek God’s vision after such a tragic event. His heart didn’t retreat to the basement of his soul. He was not about to allow the artist of destruction to paint the final picture in this story. 

I’m even more intrigued by God’s ability to turn a blackened canvas into a masterpiece. He’s quite good at creating beauty from ashes. God, through the obedience and faithfulness of Nehemiah, made sure the wall was completed and hope was restored—even in hostile territory.  

God is still doing this today. He knows the plans that He has for you, and they are plans for hope and a future. He's rewriting your script and painting a new picture. As we allow God’s dreams to become our dreams, we will experience the arrival of hope and passion. Perhaps the kind of passion that once resided in us as kids.

Why shouldn't we recover our ability to dream the right kind of dreams?  Let's allow our hearts to be the field in which God plants the seeds of His dreams. And when the shot doesn't fall and we are forced to taste a dose of reality, let's not hang our heads and give up, but rather let's leave room for one more second on the clock.

I just started praying this over my own life, and my eyes naturally shifted from my computer screen to the window again. The clouds are hanging over the ridge in a way that is eerily similar to the smoke plumes from last summer. If I squint, I can even see the torched trees that remain. An ugly reminder of reality.

  

But, I can also see the field. 

A reminder to dream anyway.