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“In the last days it will be, God declares, that I will pour out my Spirit upon all flesh, and your sons and your daughters shall prophesy, and your young men shall see visions, and your old men shall dream dreams. (Acts 2:17)
I don’t know if I am old; 71 pushing 72, is that old? I
don’t think so. Hiking in the woods, my heart doesn’t feel old at all.
Sometimes I run, not terribly fast—or far, but filled with elation nonetheless,
especially when the trail narrows and greenery surrounds, a lush, leafy canopy
filtering the sun and water squishing beneath my boots from recent rains. I
feel more like 12 or 13 … or maybe 9 or 10, filled with the joy of simply being,
my heart singing a wordless song born of the angels at Eden’s dawn.
Walking there, the Spirit breathes through every leaf on
every tree and bush as spring greens everything around, including me. And I am glad
just to be. This joy may be the best prayer we ever know on this side of forever.
I wonder, O Lord, was something like this your great
dream when, through myriad eons and millions of multifarious processes, you
brought forth life on this tiny blue-green ball?
Is this what you wanted for every Adam and every Eve who
would ever be, each graced with the privilege of drawing sweet breath and
knowing the splendor of human touch, flesh-on-flesh, our bodies able to see and
taste and smell, tracing the textures of forest and flower, finch’s flights and
cardinal calls, all of which are there, waiting for me, just outside the window
where I write?
It's a good dream, Lord. I like it, and on good days I
feel it. And on my best days, I pray that your holy dream may come true … for
everything everywhere … that the shroud of hate and death that covers the world
and its peoples may evaporate like the morning mist under the embracing warmth of
a love which has neither beginning nor end, the Love you are.
That’s my dream, which is not mine at all, but yours,
except you draw me into it and allow me to share it with you. A pretty good
gift, I think.
Sometimes, it makes me cry a little because I feel it so
deeply in this heart you have given me, a heart that is either old or young, depending
upon the day and hour. And sometimes I am depressed because your dream seems impossible,
a far-off fantasy for frightened minds unable to admit that the world will go
on and on as it always has, in all its confounded cussedness—egos clashing,
powers colliding and crushing the weak and vulnerable, them that’s got getting
more and them that’s not never knowing the graces for which you created them.
Still, the dream never dies. It lives in me as it lives
in you. Accept these tears as my prayer of thanks, assuring me that you refuse
to let my heart grow cynical, cold and hard.
Just keep breathing into us, Holy One. Let us feel your holy
dream of all becoming one, joined in one great love. And to whatever extent our
words and lives can make your dream come true, for heaven’s sake, help us do
it.
And Lord, for our sake, too.
David L. Miller
