Dreams and doubts

I have come to the conclusion that I am not a blogger. At least not a good blogger. At best, I am someone who sometimes posts something to her blog. I know this to be true because I’ve recently begun following the blogs of people who are bloggers. And it is an different game entirely. So far what I have learned is that to be a blogger you need to be: brave, witty, willing to say silly things, and have a camera nearby at all times. (Actually, the last is probably optional.) I am often number three, sometimes number one, think I’m number two and almost never number four.

Above all, my favorite bloggers are fearless. Or at least their writing is. In fact, I would say that my favorite singers, writers, poets, preachers and people are pretty fearless too. They appear to have overcome that one stumbling block that keeps the rest of us from putting pen to paper. They’ve beaten back the doubt and embraced the dream. Or maybe they’ve embraced the doubt and it’s revealed the dream.

My life has been a series of doubts and dreams the last ten months. Last May I made a decision to stand up for my dream of becoming a pastor. I can honestly say that I had no idea how many doubts would come with that. It was as if the two were all shoved into a little room in the back of my heart and flooded out together when I opened the door. A little doubt here, a little dream there, a dash of neurosis and ego in the corner. I was certain that if I just said yes – out loud and in front of people – that God would whoosh down and set me on a clear path to my future. My destiny. My dream. I suppose I was looking for the dove, for the Spirit’s voice telling me God was pleased. And when that didn’t happen, just the way I had expected it would, I guess my reaction was to wonder why God wasn’t pleased. Was it as I had feared? Was I too broken?

But here is where I’m discovering that dreams and doubts collide. Because I am too broken and cut with scars, full of pride and pain. I’ve tried to navigate this strange experience and calling on my own, without a god I thought was too busy with more worthy candidates. I’ve tried to patch up my dream, all the while turning a blind eye to the reality that I’ve only succeeded in multiplying my doubts. I blamed God for the unanswered questions. I blamed God for the stumbling blocks and the realities of life. I blamed God for being silent. I wanted a magical god, one who would do up all the undone things in my life. One who would make me brand new in every earthly way I could imagine. But here’s the thing. I don’t think God wants a blank canvas. I don’t think God wants us to be born again. I think God wants us to realize why we were born in the first place, to realize who we have the capacity to become.

God won’t erase the mistakes I’ve made. God won’t rewrite the dark stories I’ve lived. God won’t stop me when I hide away or cower in the face of what I’ve seen reflected in my life. And although I kind of wish that God would want to do all those things, I know that I could not be here, if I had not been there.