Years ago, my husband was a young preacher and I, an even younger preacher’s wife.
An older couple lived in the farm community where we lived, worked and worshipped. She was at church every Sunday…her husband, never.
Then the husband was diagnosed with cancer.
He quickly became too ill to reform his Sunday habit and sit on the pew beside his wife of many years, but on a weekday the four of us met at the vacant church house where he formally declared his faith. I remember the wife, water brimming in her eyes, declaring it an answer to her thirty-year prayer.
At the time, gazing thirty years into the future stretched out before my twenty-year-old eyes like a carpet of eternity. I couldn’t imagine holding a dream in my hands and heart that long without dropping it, breaking it, or misplacing it somewhere only to be forgotten by the time I got wherever thirty years might take me.
But some dreams are strong. They never die.
In less than three months my first book will be published. For twenty-five years I started and stopped, groaned and moaned, wrestled and tested ideas and characters to see if they really stood the test of time and had the power to hold my attention and dedication.
Five years ago, after having put several attempts on the shelf that I periodically pulled off and blew the dust from, I committed to giving it One. More. Try.
Never give up on the dreams that deeply matter to you – the dreams that make your eyes brim with water when you see them coming to fruition on the horizon.