The Deep Roots of Dreams

the life I want is the life I already have

Sometimes I get restless in my own story.

I have lived likely half my life or more and have carried dreams in my heart that did not, and now surely cannot, come true.

Standing at the beginning of my future, I pictured my life. It was clear enough to frame and put up on the wall. There I was, standing in the middle of it, looking as beautiful as I’ve ever looked and exactly belonging. The painting was a portrait of a woman who I can just remember. But memory is all I have. Now the painting is a sprawling, empty landscape. The subject got tired of waiting and walked away.

Life is never like the picture in your head. There are things that you hoped for that you have had to quietly lay down in the ground, whispering your final goodbyes. There were hopes in your heart that lay dormant, unlocked by unexpected love. There are things that you worked for, hard, that never came to be. There are things that you desperately wanted and got that are different than you expected them to be.

I say this after a busy day of hidden, quiet work. The kind that adds up to nothing on paper. A day of constant movement, leading mainly to the same cyclical labors, working a list that is un-cross-out-able. Where the body engages in everlasting efforts that, taken one at a time, seem almost meaningless and meanwhile the mind searches for a stretch of quiet, wanting to put words to the questions that gnaw at you as you stand at the kitchen sink or lie in your bed.

Motherhood is a strange combination of repetitive tasks that must be done without fail day after day—things you could do in your sleep and sometimes have to because you are just that tired—and being thrown into constant situations where you have absolutely no idea what you are supposed to do next. It is muscle-memory and it is mystery. It is a constant tension between making rhythms and having them upended. It is trying to do all the urgent things of life in the space between meals.

I think about the dreams that I once had. That woman who used to smile back from that portrait. And I look at my own face in the mirror.

I can say honestly that life is harder than I imagined it would be. And just as honestly say that it is better. And both for different reasons than I would have expected. I married a man I loved, that I still love, that I am still learning to love more deeply, though love has transformed and is transforming still. It still holds us together, but now it holds others in it. We had a family that grew into something neither of us could have imagined. The real picture of my life would be empty without this man and these children. The hands that wanted to do so many things have been mostly full, and will be for years to come, tending to all the quiet, hidden work of raising a family. The slow work. The motion of marriage and motherhood that is repetition after repetition, what can feel like the same day over and over. And yet, it happens that one day you wake, and the baby you once rocked in your arms and carried on your waist is now standing before you, eye level and looking astonishingly like the young woman in your memory.

When I look closely, I find that the deep roots of my dreams are still there. The longings that I had for love, for purpose, for meaning, to make something beautiful of my life, to have something good to share with the world—all of these dreams have come true. The picture is different but it is grown from the seed of the same dreams. This is the life I was given. This is the life I have chosen. This is the life that has come to me slowly, over time, through prayer and faith. These beautiful souls that have moved through this body and into the world are the best part of the beauty I wanted to add to it. The life I want is the life I have. The one where love grows, day by day, slowly, surely. This is a good story. It is written by the gracious hand of God. It bears the mark of his name. There is so much of him to be found in it. So much of him to learn and know and lean on in the day-to-dayness of it.

And so, God, help me again to rest. To live in this moment—not trying to climb back into an old image of my life, but to see what is here before me, now. The eyes alight, the touch of little hands, the sound of voices talking at the breakfast table. The living conversation, the good mornings and good nights. These are gifts. Help me to see the deep dreams of my heart coming true in ways I had not expected or looked for and to celebrate the life that is my own. To be surprised and delighted. To hold fast to you through every season. To see you at work, always. O God, I rest my restlessness in you. Here is my story. Let it unfold. Let it be told.

from my journal, sweet baby Ezra

Dear Friends,

It has been a busy week of all the normal everyday tasks of mothering, and we are getting ready to celebrate a birthday, and I am happy and tired! Sending this late in the evening with so much love.

Offering prayers that you will see the beauty in this moment of your own life story today. Thank you for reading these words. Your time and attention is a generous gift, and your presence here means so much to me.

Sending love,

Mackenzie