There are some dreams we're brave enough to say out loud. The dreams that we'll own up to at New Year's or speak about at parties. There are the dreams we write about in journals. But there are also other dreams, delicate dreams, the secrets we whisper in the dark. These are the dreams that seem too wonderful to belong to us, so far out of our reach that it seems like foolishness, presumption even, to speak of them. But sometimes, on a rare special day these dreams step out of the shadows, they step up and tap us on the shoulder. They take us utterly by surprise.
I have dreamt of a home of my own, one that's really mine, probably ever since I moved out of Mom & Dad's place, 17 years ago. But I have to confess that while I dreamt of it quietly, I never actually prayed about it. I didn't ask God for it because it felt too big, too much, more than was necessary. And somehow, here on this rare day He has decided to give it to me anyway. I cannot tell you why. It's because He loves me, I know that. But He shows his love in much smaller gifts than this. This feels like a fairy tale.
It's been two weeks between having our offer accepted by the vendor and yesterday's closing and during those weeks I tried so hard not to dream. I forced myself to use conditional verbs. "In the house that might be ours..." I'd say, "in the maybe house the windows are lovely." "You know if we did get that house, if it all worked out we could build built in shelves in the living room." The Maybe House sounded about as real as the Wendy house I played in as a child, and about as accessible as that long ago memory. [Canadian translation: in England a Wendy house is play house] But it's not a Maybe House anymore. It's very, very real.
I remember when we first went to look at the house I noticed that there's a brass lion head door knocker on the door that is my door now. I remember thinking, "Wouldn't that be a fine thing, to own a door with a lion head knocker? " It is a fine thing indeed. On Facebook last night a good friend of mine asked if this was the house where I'm going to write the Great Canadian Novel. (Isn't that a lovely thing to ask?) It just might be. It feels like a house of dreams and stories.
There's a waiting period now - a couple of months, almost like an engagement, where we are promised to each other but not yet living together. It'll be a time of packing, of sorting through and letting go. It's a time of transition, which is never my favourite. But it will also be a time of dreaming. I came across a quote from Walt Mills the other day that spoke of, "running barefoot through the grass without care or knowledge, like Adam and Eve when they were young and innocent, naming the world for the first time." I think that is a perfect description of what happens now. It's time to name the world for the first time and, I hope, a time to honour the other secrets that I whisper in the dark.
