Years ago, a friend had a dream which she felt compelled to share with me. When the dream began, Suzi was standing in a line of people in a beautiful garden adorned with trees, flowers and fountains all around. She was soaking in all the beauty when she realized the people ahead of her in line were – one at a time – stepping into a very ugly, barren place. None of them was given a choice whether they wanted to go into this horrid place, and as she got closer, she began to fill with dread. When her turn came to step into the barren place, she cried out in fear, and her God answered, “Keep your eyes on me.”
And so, she kept her head up as she took that first step, and she noticed that a beautiful, lush, colorful garden grew. As she grew bolder and took more steps, she continued through that desolate place, and with each step, more garden grew, creating a beautiful path.
I dreamt about Suzie’s dream early this morning. How prophetic this dream was for me when I was in the freshest time of my grief journey. My son had just died, I was about to give birth to a baby, and my four-year-old daughter, my husband and I were trying to figure out how to navigate this journey that has no map. It felt daunting at the time, to be sure.
But I took a step.
And then another.
And thirty years later, I am still walking through this desolate place.
You see, friend, there is no final destination to this journey as many want to believe. There’s not a certain number of tears or days, months or years that will mean we get to be over losing someone we love. It just doesn’t work that way, and I suspect it is because love has no end. And if love has no end, how could grief?
What is vitally important is that we take that step, and then take another and pretty soon, it will become more comfortable to walk here. There will be fewer times when the grief is debilitating and when the awful is overwhelming. And then, in the middle of this journey, and in the middle of this very desolate place, we glance around and we are able to see all the opulence of these gardens around us, and we experience all the colors this life can be.
So, this morning during my dreamy slumber, I glanced around at the gardens that have grown in my journey through the desolate. And while I certainly saw pain and sadness, there are just no words I have to describe the incredible color and lavish gardens that have filled each step of my way.
There has been
laughter
and joy
and children
and relationships
and contentment
and purpose
and dancing
in a place that has a potential to only hold despair.
Today, the anniversary of my first step into this journey, I remember my Ben, the brown eyed boy who was the one to make me a mom. I will remember him and his ornery ways and his loving ways and all the ways I miss him. I will certainly cry for the man I do not know. And the voice I barely remember anymore. And I will likely be very aware of the monochrome of the desolate.
Then, I will look around me and be filled with wonder at the gardens emerging through today’s steps. And perhaps with tears streaming, I’ll dance in the colors around me. Will you join me?
Like a lot.
That was about 5 years ago. I STILL have lilies that have poked their heads through! They are tough.








