Bob Goff is the founder of Dream Big workshops. He is generous and funny and has turned himself into a brand of theology through his books on outrageous love. Goff says it’s good to have a lot of dreams bubbling away on the burners of your stove. Is this true? I don’t know, but I think so. I haven’t lived long enough to see most dreams make it to the plate. I can only manage stirring one pot at a time.
Usually it’s the writing pot that bubbles up like crazy and i have to run to stir it down before it boils over like scalding milk. I’ve been running for the burner for my whole adult life. I’m starting to believe that writing isn’t actually in a pot–it happens to be the hood that catches all the grease.
Anybody who has lived for awhile on this green earth knows you must abandon some dreams to grow others. Every spring when I buy seeds to plant, I wonder at the miracle of holding a tiny shriveled seed that will, under the right conditions, with good intentions (and limited neglect) turn into the surest sign of life. That miniature green flag poking out of the dirt waves a banner of hope. Life springs from death. It’s the most confounding, beautiful miracle.
I’ve been stirring a new pot this Spring, beckoning a baby dream to germinate and sprout into this world. It’s causing a lot of other dreams to wilt in the hot sun. I’m learning to be okay with it, because I’ve seen it happen before. That’s a good thing about getting older–you don’t panic so much about keeping all the pots stirred–you go ahead and let some simmer into slow-cooked, tender, unexpected wonders. You let the others scorch the pan (and throw it out altogether). It doesn’t mean you’re a terrible cook; it’s learning to let go of the uncontrollable. You focus on the pot in front of you and keep whisking.
My kids have been the best thing I’ve ever tended. I’m amazed at how resilient and strong they are. With a bit of trellising and attention, they just keep growing and blooming. The early years are so crucial in determining the right soil, establishing roots, and worrying about the environment. I’m not able to pursue much else–I’m still emerging from the fog (and waiting a divine potty-training intervention). But some scaffolding is in place, and our garden is beginning to take shape. I’m realizing I’m not a trained gardener, but God is faithful like the sun–He makes things grow when I water seeds. If I don’t ever water anything else, I really, really want these ones to grow and produce fruit.
But I’ve got to thinking about my kids, and how they, too, need to see how dreams grow. Not just dreams, but any sort of boldness in trying out new recipes. What will happen if they see me serenade the folks at the nursing home on a Tuesday afternoon? What will they think if they see me buy lunch for the school staff? What will grow if they see me teach Sunday school for forty years straight? These are dreams, too. Not the billowy kind that float in my blue sky imagination, but solid, reliable perennials. I wonder if Bob Goff knows that any little dream is worth its pot on the stove. It doesn’t have to be big.
Maybe God’s not asking us to grow a finicky orchid. Maybe he’s just asking us to toss some seeds in the dirt and water them every other day. It doesn’t have to be a boeuf bourguignon dream in the pot you are stirring. It could be one-minute ramen noodle soup. It could nourish someone for one meal and be worth it.
Will we make a place for it on the stove?
