divinewrites

There is a scene in the movie, I Can Only Imagine, where the antagonist is seen tossing trophies and mementos of a former football career into a burning barrel and setting them on fire.  You can feel the pain and disappointment in his movements, the charred remains of the barrel hold the soot seared reminders of a life they hoped would be theirs, and never was.  You can almost taste the dreams that now lay in ashes at the bottom of the rubble.  The hurt is real.

Moments later that same antagonist comes face-to-face with the story’s protagonist, a  young boy intent on dreaming his own flights of fancy.  He is a bright-eyed, optimistic, creative, boy- youthful exuberance bubbles out of him as he proudly shows his mother the make-shift helmet he has constructed out of trash heaps he’s ruffled through that day.  It’s a fighter helmet for use in an epic space battle he knows he’ll engage in someday.  As his father asks about it, he shrugs it off explaining that it’s really nothing-just junk.  We know it’s not true-we had just seen him describe it to his mother and heard her remark how hard he had worked on it.  In a swift moment, his father reminds him that, “Dreams don’t pay the bills.  They keep you from all this, from knowing what’s real.” With that he snatches up the helmet, walks to the lit burning barrel, and tosses it in without so much as a glance.  The flames lick at the drawn designs on the cardboard before it too, becomes the same ash as his father’s football trophies at the bottom of the barrel.

“Dreams keep you from knowing what’s real.”  I understand that statement and I wrestle with it daily.  You see, I am a dreamer.  I am a 100%, head in the clouds, fanciful idealist, who has long envisioned a life somewhere else, living out the dreams I have entertained since I was a little girl sitting at the end of a dock, hashing them out with the fish swimming below me.   I’ve known for decades what those dreams look like, I can taste them-hear them, I know them as intimately as an actor knows the character they play on stage.

Many of my dreams do not involve material goods. I want to be comfortable, to have a few nicer things, provide an education for my children and enough to enjoy trips and treats every now and then.  Most of mine are centered on cycles that I want to end, of relationships tattered that I want mended, of perceptions smashed and reputations restored.  I dream of truth and forgiveness and love unconditional.

I know what it feels like to watch those dreams burn to ashes.  Recently, I realized a dream that was singed 25 years ago.  The day I watched,  I Can Only Imagine, with my oldest son, I recall how gut punched I felt viewing that burning barrel scene.  I sat there with tears streaming down my cheeks and it took my son pointing them out to realize how long I had been crying.  I understood the anguish in that scene.

I had a hero growing up.  That hero happened to live in my house, and the sun rose and set on the opinions and actions of him.  When I was in their good graces, I floated.  When I fell from grace, I crashed and burned.  There was a moment my senior year of high school-some 25 years ago where I fell from his favor.  In that moment, all of their pent up frustration, anger, resentment, drama and ego spewed forth and I, like Icarus, flew too close to the sun, melted my wings, and plunged to the earth.  I’ve yet to repair those wings.

That moment shattered the image of my hero and sent them crashing to the earth too.  In all fairness, it is unrealistic to idolize someone that much.   There is no way they can maintain that expectation, nor should they have to.   That kind of pressure, self inflicted or other, is dangerous and often leads to heartache.  I knew that and yet naively believed that after such a fall, I could piece things together and go back to before it happened.  Icarus died mid flight.

I was embarking on a new adventure the summer after this fall out and my hero and I would be attending the same college, situated in the same dorm complex.  I knew I would see them.  I knew many of the same people and I wanted desperately to restore my former standing.  I wanted to matter.  I wanted to fix it.  So, I set about doing so.

This was the time in the fashion world where button down silk shirts were all the rage-my hero had seen one, remarked they wanted one and I knew it.  In fact, that same year we had been at a store together and I promised him his first silk shirt would come from me.  So, I devised what I thought was a fool proof plan.  I saved up my money from the grocery store job I had, marched into the local men’s boutique and purchased the nicest, button down, silk shirt I could find, $60 some dollars later.  I asked the salesperson to wrap the gift because if anyone knows me, they know that I can’t wrap my way through a Christmas present.  They gave me the box and it was full of color and ribbon and festivity.  I beamed with pride, nearly skipping my way to the car.  I knew this would be “the moment”!

I brought it into the house, excited to have something to gift to my hero for their birthday.  I just knew that this would heal all the cracks that had developed in the past few months.  I gave it to my mother for safe keeping and requested that  she not tell my hero what it was or who it was from.  I was convinced that when they opened it, saw what was inside and recalled the conversation where I had promised  this gift, that the ice would melt and all past transgressions would be forgiven!  I couldn’t wait to see the reaction and  hear the lifetime music that would swell in the background as a moment of heartfelt sibling connection was re-established.  I could walk into my college dorm feeling whole again.

Knowing that my presence would be unwelcome during the birthday celebration, I ran to the only sanctuary I had available at the time.  I ran to the water’s edge.  I ran, with a black , cassette tape,  headphone player,  complete with a worn copy of REO Speedwagon in its case.  At the edge of the rocky boat ramp, I climbed into my hidden refuge, hugged my knees to my chin, and hit play.  The swells of familiar music filled my ears as the lyrics to, “Time for Me to Fly” washed over me.