It is natural to hold my dreams tightly. Keeping them close inside my pockets, perhaps it is easy to suppose that proximity to myself is "protection." Here, I can run my fingers over them and admire their beauty as I please, but now what am I? A dragon with her gold-like hoard, enjoying an idle shimmer that benefits no one? In this state, these seeds of dreams are nothing. Because in this state, they are devoid of life.
The only way a seed can come to life is if it dies. Sprouting can only come after burial. Seasons of apparent bareness clear the way for deeply rooted life that can endure storms with winsome vitality. I must cede my dream to the earth. My little seeds must be surrendered into the depths of that dark soil if they are to be anything more than pebles. In this darkness, my dreams are tested. The real, lasting, and good is separated from the fanciful, shallow, and vain. Upon that ancient alter, I surrender what is empty in my own hands to One Who Spoke all life into being. The Dream Giver, the Gardener who tends to and prunes my soul. In His loving hands those dreams can be nurtured and grown. But even the dreams that don't grow, the dreams that were empty from the start, they must still be handed over. Otherwise, those counterfeit seeds will continue to weigh down my pockets and make my steps heavy. If I do not cast aside all I hold dear, I can never experience the buoyancy, the freedom, of traveling this life lightly. And I will never know, which dreams were pebbles, and which were envoys of life from the start.
