The part where the dream looks dead

Spring was just a week away. And we got slammed with a blizzard.

The days are getting longer. But the darkness feels like it’s all-encompassing.

This is the part of the story where things don’t look good for the hero. Where you hang on to the tiniest thread of hope that somehow, he’s going to come through this. But you really aren’t sure.

This is the part where the dream seems as good as dead.

—

Months ago now, or maybe it’s been longer, we felt like God was nudging us to consider a move into the city. We currently live in the suburban-like developed-yet-rural area outside the city limits. And we are being pulled into the heart of the city.

We wanted to buy a house. Move this summer. Live happily ever after.

This is the part where the dream seems like it could die.

The part where the bank calls back and they sound like they wish they could do more but they just can’t offer you much in the way of a loan. And it’s not because your credit is bad (it’s near perfect) or you have sketchy job history (it’s stable in the same industry). It’s because of technicalities. Debt on your record that you currently don’t have to pay because of income requirements and weekly bonuses that don’t count because you haven’t been at your job long enough.

This is the part where you manage to end the call before you burst into tears. Where you stand in the kitchen and stir the pots on the stovetop for dinner and let the tears fall.

The part where you start listening to the voices, the mean ones in your head that tell you things you shouldn’t believe. They sound like your chiropractor, a working mom, who when you complain about the schedule changes this week because of the snow, says, “But you work from home, so it doesn’t matter, right?” She doesn’t meant it to be mean, but you hear her words as criticism. Combined with the call from the bank, you think, “Maybe I should give up this whole writing thing and get a real job. One that actually pays the bills. What kind of fool sits at home writing all day, dreaming of the day when her words will be in the world and maybe just maybe bring a little bit of money with them?” It doesn’t help that you might be on the verge of losing a project you’ve spent 18 months working on.

This is the part of the story where you were just starting to feel good about life again. Hopeful, even. And now the demons are back. The old feelings of anger, bitterness and despair are rising, and you’re questioning all the events from the past you can’t change. Why did they have to happen the way they did?

The voices also say this is the part of the story you shouldn’t tell. You should wait till there’s resolution, one way or another, because OMG, Lisa, dramatic much? You are Chicken Little and the sky is falling and you are telling everyone before you can think it through.

And yet this is the part of the story that makes the story.

Think about it: In your favorite movie or book, there’s probably a moment when the dream looks dead. The goal, unreachable.

Tara is ruined. Westley is dead. The ring is in the wrong hands. Hogwarts has fallen. (Forgive my oversimplifications.)

What would a good story be without a moment of doubt?

—

That these feelings should occur during Lent is no coincidence. Our family decided to cut out TV for this span, not because we think it will make us more holy, but because we often find ourselves turning to it as a distraction. And I’ve never wanted a distraction so much as I have this week. I want to zone out, live someone else’s life through the screen, and forget about my own problems.

But the TV isn’t an option. So I’m forced to feel. And deal.

Lent feels like a slow march to death sometimes. Even though Easter is coming, we have to go through Good Friday to get there and Good Friday is the darkest point of the story. The dream, the hope, the promise is dead. And there’s nothing anyone can do but mourn.

Until two days later, when we see that death is not where the story ends. The story ends with life. Rebirth. Resurrection.

I’ve read enough stories to know that it’s true. This part where things are all wrong and it seems devoid of hope is not the end. (But it’s still hard to believe that in the day-to-day.) The seed in the ground, buried under dirt, is not the end. It’s the beginning. The only way to life.

This is the part where the dream seems dead. It’s just a part of the story, and however long it lasts, I will try to see it as such. An end to this story is coming and I will remember this part of it.

Because what kind of story would it be without the part where all seems lost?