The dream

When I was in college I watched my aunt, dying of cancer, take her last breath. A few years later, my grandfather, also dying of cancer, died in his room surrounded by chatting family. After noticing he didn’t seem to be breathing I checked for a pulse and found nothing. I have been in the presence of death. I have seen it take what belongs to it right in front of my eyes. I have watched the preceding work of death; the months in hospitals, going to treatments, the 911 calls and funeral after funeral. I held the hands of loved ones in comas, folded their fingers to hold my hand because they couldn’t do it themselves, and swabbed their mouth that was drying out from oxygen masks. I have heard the tones of doctors’ voices deliver news that some could handle and some could not bear the thought. I learned the signs of death. The medical professionals calling in Hospice, getting a home healthcare nurse, and having involuntary functions like breathing being the task for the day instead of a project at work. I've seen strong people become weak and weak people exhibit strength beyond comprehension. I have heard people cry out to God and question Him in the same breath. I've heard the not-so-comforting phrases Christian say to make them sound holy. “They are in a better place…” and “God is sovereign.” I am not saying these statements are not true, but they are not that comforting. Now I am watching something die right in front of my eyes that I cannot handle. It is what I will call my dream.

I have wanted to be in student ministry since I was 15. I have listened and followed even to the extent of leaving family to be trained hundreds of miles away. I watched a passion be implemented in me that was beyond human understanding. I went to bed thinking about God and His heart for teenagers and woke up finishing the thoughts. I never wanted to do anything but this passion, this dream. I waded into shallow pools of ministry, part-time and volunteering here and there. Then I got to do fulltime, my passion was fueled ever so slightly because it wasn’t exactly the dream but it was close. Then at last a big shot. I was invited to swim deeply into the dream, propelled by a passionate calling never really quite understood. It was glorious. I felt so alive and part of a plan. Literally the smile could not be slapped off my face. Someone once said that when God fulfills a dream this is what it is like. Sleep was a bother; every minute was too good to miss. Then a tragedy hit. I still don’t really know if I caused it or not. As an observer of reality, I know that the common denominator is usually suspect in the cause. The dream seems so lifeless. Holding its hand, I have to wrap its fingers around mine because it can’t do it for itself anymore. Its breathing is shallow and its heartbeat is faint. I have heard the grave tone of voice say that the heart has left. It doesn’t look good. I know it is still in there. My dream is on a ventilator and I have power of attorney. What is best? Having it exist in this state for an unlimited amount of time or move on? Grief for the dying is agony. Miracles happen, but not at my wish. The words of supposed comfort are the words that hurt the most, “God is sovereign.” How do you know if a dream is really dead? What do you do then? If someone has some insight, please let me hear it.