Dear friend: holding broken dreams up to the light

a letter for Good Friday, dark days and the burial of precious hopes

Dear friend,

​As I hold the weight of Good Friday today, I am thinking of dreams and longings that have died for me, whether in recent years or recent weeks. I'm grateful for these words from Alicia Britt Chole's¹ book 40 Days of Decrease² as I imagine the depth of devastation the disciples held on this day:

They had a dream that was cruelly crucified before their very eyes…

Today we speed-read through the darkest days of the disciples’ lives because the joy of the resurrection is only a few verses away. But if we slow down there is much to learn. What did they do after their dream died on the cross? How did they cope? Let us walk with the disciples as they mourned the death of the greatest dream they had ever known.

Speechless, Jesus’ followers kept watch until the very end (Luke 22:49). They held on to flickering hope until its flame was extinguished. Then they gave themselves permission to bury their dream. Burial is a symbol of respect. When dreams shatter, we, too, need to give ourselves time to gently collect the broken pieces and wrap them respectfully in tears. This is not about prematurely abandoning hope. This is about accepting reality.

Denying Jesus’ death would not return Him to the disciples. It was healthy for them to permit a burial. Faith is not threatened by funerals. (40 Days of Decrease, 203-204)

I wonder what dreams have shattered for you, dear Friend.

Can you see yourself in the disciples’ pain and devastation? What grief are you holding today? I’ll share a few of mine.

I’m noticing the grief I’m holding as a dream of my husband’s³ is dying. I feel like I’ve been midwifing this dream for him, with him for the past two years, laboring alongside him to see what might come of listening to his desire. We’ve invested time, energy, money, resources into seeing this through. It is a deep disappointment to listen to what is true and see that this dream doesn’t fit, at least not the way we imagined.

I’m noticing the grief that lingers of living far from my family. We started our life together across the country, in Washington state, near my family and it felt like a dream come true. There were many factors that went into moving away, another cross-country move to Pennsylvania, but I remember feeling like I’d been given a puzzle that couldn’t be solved. I couldn’t hold onto all the things I longed for, without it costing too much. My dream-come-true became a deep loss only a few short years into our marriage. The pain of it ebbs and flows, often around holidays and birthdays but also ordinary moments that I wish were easier to share without a screen in between us or a plane ticket & weeks of planning.

I’m noticing the grief of my body needing more care. I’m headed into months of dental work soon and the anxiety of offering such a vulnerable part of me to the care of others is heavy. The cost is high, both monetarily and physically for this work to be done, and I feel that in my body.

I’m noticing the grief of some of my most favorite people having died. Their love was a constant grounding presence in my life. It is often a dull ache to be without my grandparents for a number of years now, to miss the unique love of those who have delighted in me since my beginning. But sometimes the dull pain roars to life with an acute fierceness when I picture the joy for my children they’ve never met or the love in their voice that I can still hear in my head. It still can feel unthinkable that they aren’t here, that I’m without them for the rest of my life.

There’s more deaths and grief than this. I’m holding relational estrangement that I can’t bridge the gap of, without sacrificing something essential about myself. I’m holding the grief of a church community that I was forced out of, pushed outside of belonging there because my presence was a threat. I’m filled with grief for the mistreatment of our most vulnerable populations, the collective uncertainty that feels almost palpable in our country right now. I feel like I’m standing grave-side for dear friends’ dreams dying, feeling the weight of their loss like my own.

It is a comfort to look at these precious dreams with Jesus, as I examine the broken pieces and wrap them carefully to be buried. Even writing this to you feels like a burial of sorts.

Most of us will not see the resurrection of our dreams within three days. In fact, some of our dreams are sown for future generations to reap. Even then, obedience is never a waste; it is an investment in a future we cannot see. When we dream with God, our dreams-even in burial-are not lost: they are planted. God never forgets the “kernel of wheat [that] falls to the ground and dies” (John 12:24).

For the health of our souls, we must resist checking out when it looks like God just died. He is still present and we must work to remain present too. (40 Days of Decrease, 205)

So often, being present with the burial of these dreams means creating space for my disappointment to breathe. It means allowing my tears to fall and giving voice to the pain I’m experiencing. It might mean journaling or telling a safe friend or a simple hand to my heart when the pain comes, acknowledging that this hurts and I am bearing witness to that. It can mean being honest with the Lord about my heartache, all I’d hoped for and all I’ve lost, even when all I have to offer is crying out.

A quiet moment after her examination, when we sat alone in the exam room, where she could receive my comfort.

I recently held Clover at the pediatrician as she cried, full of fear and anxiety for the doctor’s presence. Even without any physical pain during her examination, she was in a state of distress. My words of comfort, even my arms around her, felt like they couldn’t quite reach her in her current state. That image of my dysregulated girl has come to mind often these days, as I hear the invitation to trust that I am held and he is near, even when my fear or grief makes that hard or even impossible to receive.

I notice that I was filled with compassion for Clover, not angry or upset at her limited perspective or her body entering into fight-or-flight. I came near, speaking over her that I was here with her. I would not leave her. I wanted to be with her. Her angry, panicked cries were a strange gift, as I knew she was posturing herself towards me, even if she couldn’t yet receive my comfort. I didn’t need certain words or even her to acknowledge me for me to come close in her upset state.

As I hold up these broken dreams to the light today, I am also holding onto this image of the Lord being near, just as I was near to Clover in her distress. Our disappointment or devastation at dreams being shattered is not something to hide away, but to look at with Jesus, even if we can not yet feel his comfort.

I’ll end with this poem I wrote a few years ago, upon finding unexpected seeds in my garden bed in the dead of winter. I remember I felt the Holy Spirit’s invitation then and the following poem came out of that. I hope it meets you and speaks to this question from Dr. A. J. Swoboda, “Could it be that a legitimate stage of hope is hopelessness?”

At first glance

it’s nothing but a

graveyard.

You can almost hear the grief

in the rustling brown

of what was once green.

Frost has choked and grasped

until all that remains is

weathered, worn, weary.

There’s nothing left but memory

of vibrant colors

and blooms teeming with life.

The thought of summer’s bouquets feels

far away and almost cruel

bringing an ache for

warmth and beauty

to the surface

of your heart.

You turn to go,

reminded of the death

of other previous dreams,

wanting to push the pain away.

But wait—come closer.

Lean in.

Could it be?

Death hides a secret.

There is life here,

waiting

for the right time.

What are seeds

if not hope—

Hope that after winter’s barrenness

spring will burst forth,

declaring that a graveyard

doesn’t tell the full story.

You gather handfuls of this

tangible hope—

seeds for spring

future flowers

precious dreams in your palm.

How could you have forgotten

that death is not the end?

It is but part of the resurrection

your heart longs for.

Your hopes

your dreams

your longings

are all held safe

for the right time

just like the seeds you now hold

tenderly.

What are seeds

if not hope?

Dear friend, as I end this letter, I can’t help but pause to pray for your heart. Even if you can not find the space to hope, even if your heart feels too bruised and battered to receive comfort, I pray that you would find the courage to bring your broken dreams to the light. I pray that you would be present to the burial of these precious things, entrusting them to the Lord, even when all hope feels lost.

And even though I say it every time, I mean it every time: thank you for being with me. I'd truly love to hear from you. Feel free to just hit "reply" to this email. I read and savor every email that comes my way, even if I don’t always have the space to respond (which is often these days, but I’m trying!) I’d be so glad to know what dreams you’re burying, what grief you’re holding or if my words brought up anything to the surface of your heart today.

Warmly,

Alison

PS. I’m so glad to write you this letter for free. It is a joy to do so. It is such a gift for you to be here, and I don’t need more thanks than that. But if you find my words helpful and would like to support me even more, here are a few ways to do so:

• Buy me a coffee.

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• Stay tuned for another Dear Friend letter soon!

1. I’ve been impacted by all her books that I’ve been privileged to read: Anonymous, The Night is Normal, The Sacred Slow. She is one of my favorite teachers and it gives me a tiny thrill to have the same alma mater: George Fox University.

2. This is a Lenten devotional, but it is one I’ve returned to time and time again since it was first published in 2016, and not always within the weeks of Lent. It is thoughtful, gentle and wise and I’d definitely recommend it. I think it is my favorite of her books.

3. It also feels fair to call it my dream now too, as our lives are so entwined and shared, but it is first and foremost his dream. He’s poured two years into trying a career in day trading, and after listening to his journey over that time, we’ve determined that it is not wise for him to continue on that trajectory. He’s returning to construction in a new way this April.