Archives For Dreams

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Hi! This is my daughter, Bella; she’s a Daisy Scout. This is her, and our, first year involved with scouts. We’re heading into cookie season, a fun time for the girls (and their families). Cookie sales fund a number of scout programs, such as camp, troop activities, etc.

Ours being a brand new troop, expectations aren’t very high for sales. Even so, her mother and I always try to encourage Bella to dream big.

You have a dream; you might be pursuing it now. Or maybe you had a dream, and have forgotten how. You remember what it is dream–what it feels like to see it out there, shimmering on the horizon before you. It’s so sweet, you can almost taste it.

It’s right there at your fingertips.

You didn’t get there alone. You had a lot of help, a lot of encouragement, along the way.

My little girl has a dream, too:

She wants to sell 1500 boxes of Girl Scout cookies.

If she can, she’ll earn a one-day trip to Disneyland (one of her favorite places). 'Take that, Girl Scouts!!' photo (c) 2012, An Mai - license: http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0/

From the Girl Scout’s website:

“When a Girl Scout sells you cookies, she’s building a lifetime of skills and confidence. She learns goal setting, decision making, money management, people skills, and business ethics—aspects essential to leadership, success, and life.

By putting her mind and energies to something, a Girl Scout can overcome any challenge. There are no limits. She can be anything. She can do anything. Help her build a lifetime of skills and confidence.”

The Cookies

Can I count on you to order cookies, and help a little girl’s dream come true? They’re only $4.00 per box. Contact me at: Chad Jones, and we’ll work out the details.

I don’t remember being this old. I certainly don’t feel it in my bones (well, sometimes, I do). I’m 44. It seems a higher number than I recall. Where did my thirties go? I blinked, and they passed like a whisper on the wind–never to be heard again.

I look in the mirror, and the face looking back at me is older than the man seeing it feels. The eyelids droop with the inexorable pull of gravity, there’s an extra chin which seems to have sprouted fully-formed when I wasn’t looking. How did that happen? How did I get here? One cheek has a slight concavity from the nightly wearing of a CPAP head strap. Sleep apnea? Isn’t that something that old, overweight men suffer from? Oh, wait

I don’t remember growing older… It just happened one day when I wasn’t looking. I went to bed one night, and awoke middle aged. I went to bed with hopes, dreams, and aspirations, and awakened to a job I’ve been at for nearly a fourth of my life. Time, seemingly so slow to pass when I was young, feels more and more like the “Kessel Run” (of Star Wars fame): like the smuggler Han Solo, it wants to do its business undetected, and as quickly as possible (so as not to attract any attention), and in less than twelve parsecs.

It’s robbing me of my energy, sapping my creative will… The gap between what I hoped to have done, and what I’ve actually done, is ever-widening. (Publish a book? Hah! When do you have time, and energy to write? To really write?).

Will I bridge that gap? Will you?

Carpe diem, my friends. We each of us just have one day to pursue our dreams. We each are alotted one life, one that is lived, and has only ever been lived, on one day:

TODAY.

We–you, me, all of us–have it in us. Have the energy, the courage, the fortitude to face today. As C.S. Lewis once said, “The future comes at all of us at the same rate: sixty seconds in a minute, sixty minutes per hour.”

We don’t know how many minutes, or hours, we’ll be given.

So let’s make them count, shall we?

The Men Who Shot Me

randomlychad  —  August 10, 2012 — 11 Comments

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It’s quarter past four in the morning. I’m not sure why I’m up. Was it the dream I just had? Or the headache I both took to bed with me, and woke up with?

In the dream, my wife and I are vacationing I’m not sure where. She’s checking us in, but somehow I’m already in the room.

Two men are there.

With guns.

Somehow I have one, too. Words are exchanged; I ask what they want.

They answer with a hail of bullets.

I return fire. Most of their bullets miss, but some strike home. I’m shot in the chest.

My shots are true, and the assailants fall dead at my feet.

I’m shot, but alive. I need to find my wife, tell her I’m going to the hospital.

I do, and walk next door to it.

And Iike was like they know me, know what I need, acknowledge my wounds. All the paperwork is ready and waiting. I sign in, am escorted to surgery.

It is a success.

Lisa finds me. We are together, and stronger than ever.

The assailants failed to take me out.

I’ll let you take what meaning you will from my dream, but to me it’s clear:

The assailants are the schemes of the wicked one who seeks to sideline me. I am wounded by them, but able to find healing in the hospital. To me, that hospital is the Wild At Heart retreat I’m going to next week. They are expecting me, know my name, know my wounds (the shot to the chest is my heart), and have the healing I need.

Afterwards, after I return home, Lisa and I find each other again, and are stronger than ever.

That is what I think my dream means. The strange thing is that I don’t usually remember my dreams. I don’t want to claim it’s from God, but it sure seems to be.

Have you ever had such vivid dream, one that confirmed you were on the path you were supposed to be? Do you remember your dreams?

It’s late now, and I’m quite tired. I have been grabbing every spare moment I can to write. And it’s hard. Despite having just crossed the threshold of five hundred posts here (who knows how many word that is anyway?), this thing, this book idea, looms large in my mind.

In order to do it justice, I find I must step back into the misty past to find my forebears. Because I need to know the ones who shaped the ones who shaped me.

Yet so many are gone from this life, with only shadows left. Some I never knew. And some events are things which I’m told happened to me, but of which I have no memory.

I feel like I’m reconstructing the million little pieces of a life–of many lives, really. Such is obscured by the hazy lens of time…

And so much has gone by.

Why didn’t I do this sooner? When I (on the words of Billy Joel) “wore a younger man’s clothes?” When my brain wasn’t addled by apnea?

But now is the time I have, and my heart burns within me. I have a beginning, and some notion of the middle, but I’m not sure where it will end–because this is the story of a life, like shoes being broken in, still being lived in, walked through.

There will be blisters, and calluses. And some may be pained by what I say, but it will be the truth as best as I recollect it.

It just occurred to me that I do have a fitting end:

“But God…”

What about you, and your life? Who, or what, shaped you? Somehow, does it all come back, for you, as it does me, to: “but God?”


Alright. I need to get this off my chest. It’s been seething inside of me since I read it (in one sitting!).

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