It started small. Like a half-piece of cat litter that made its way into your shoe. That was several years ago.
But it’s not small anymore. Now it’s undeniable. It’s huge. It’s screaming. It’s in my face. On my heart. Pounding in my mind.
I have to write a book. There, I’ve said it. It has now entered the room of public accountability. Keep asking how it’s coming. Keep checking in on it. Keep praying along with me. Please.
This is a messy dream. I’m not sure what will come of it or what it’s for. I don’t expect to change the world with it or even sell many copies. I don’t have much unique to say about anything… and yet the Lord keeps stirring me on. He must have something to say.
I’m sitting on our couch right now and it smells like throw up. My son puked on it last night. He’s sitting next to me this morning looking forlorn and glassy-eyed. He’s got a metal mixing bowl next to him in case he needs to vomit again. Occasionally he’ll turn it over and use it as a drum. He’s queezy again, so the bowl sits upright now, ready to catch whatever might come.
This is going to be messy. How do you take new ground on a dream when days are filled with the needs of people and your own puking children? Did Walt Disney wrestle through that? Did Spielberg? Hemingway? Steinbeck? Dostoyevsky? Erwin McManus? Louie Giglio?
Yep. I’m sure they did. I’m sure they started way more than they finished. That has been my pattern. I’ve started writing about 20 different things in the last few years. Some are finished. Most aren’t. The open seas, though, are calling me for something of substance. Something that would allow me to enter a quiet conversation with someone else on their time. In their home. On their couch that smells like throw-up.
So, here we go friends. Here we go Jesus. In between my day to day responsibilities to my God, my wife, my boys, and my junior high flock, I will dive deeply into this dream. Hope I don’t get queezy.