The Red Box of Dreams

The little Red Box of Dreams stood solid and sturdy, albeit dirty, in the center of my living room, its dust and dirt and paint chips hogging up altogether too much space upon its surface. The door to the box stood tall and open, as though beckoning more dreams to wander their way into the box’s fold. But the file folders within, decades old, remained empty, a musty reminder that I have taken my dreams out of the box and have lived a life thus far I never imagined.

My little Red Box of Dreams, decades old now, is empty inside
except for empty file folders. The dream I had is out of the box.
It is no longer my dream; is is His. 
I can’t recall the day my mother gave me the little red box to hold within its confines my endless streams of writing as a child, but then nor can I remember too much of being a child. How could I forget my dream, though, the one I had worked so hard to keep inside the box I now call the Red Box of Dreams? I wanted to write, and write, and write. And so I did, and so I have. My mother gave me the little red box to hold my dream – as though I could contain it even if I tried. Oh, how much I had to learn. 
Somewhere along the winding, wandering, wondering, broken road that has rudely, roughly, haphazardly interspersed itself with my history, I discovered this. Dreams are not meant to live inside boxes. Dreams are meant to be lived. But not mine. No, my dreams would have stayed inside the box until I take my last breath, for that is where I believed they belonged. They would not have survived that way, of course. 
They would have only grown musty, moldy, mildew, making even cotton balls not enough to keep them fresh for their season of use. Mine did not, I know now. For once I had lost the little key that went with the little lock that went with the little Red Box of dreams, and once I shoved the box away in a corner somewhere, I set the course for what would happen to my dreams. They would not only come out of their box. They would do one of two things. They would fly away, or they would be re-made, re-created, re-configured, re-fined, re-done, in the hands of the Lord if these dreams of mine were meant to be at all. 
So many of my dreams flew away like balloons forever out of reach, forever gone. But some remained. Resurrected by God. Like He resurrected me. He raised me up from a life of brokenness, He reminded me of my long-time dream of writing, and He gently, lovingly, relentlessly, showed me that He could do with this dream of mine what I never could do. He has taught me how to sacrifice my own dreams for His dreams for me. 
He has taught me to dream His dreams. He has taught me dreams weren’t meant for little red boxes. He has taught me to live not my dreams, but His dreams. Not for my glory; for His. And so I no longer write for the world, though I am tempted often and even find myself falling. And I no longer write for me, though I am tempted often and fall too frequently. I am learning, step by step, breath by breath, word by word, to dream, and write, and live His dreams for Him. 
I keep only two physical things from my childhood. My stuffed little Doggie I shared with my brother. And my little Red Box of Dreams. It stays empty while I live life outside my little Red Box of Dreams. I am His now, after all. For Him I live. His dreams and all. How could God’s dreams ever fit inside a box? 
ENCOURAGEMENT: Do you have your own little Red Box of Dreams? Have you kept the door shut, letting the dreams die without air or get pretty close to death anyway? What would happen if you opened the lid of the box and surrendered your dreams into the hands of the Lord? What would happen if you said goodbye to the dreams that were never His to begin with, if you allowed Him to re-fine the dreams that truly are His dreams for you to live, what if you received from Him the new dreams He may want to give to you, and what if you lived a life of His dreams for you, His dreams for you for His glory? 
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