Architecture

When you start to build a dream, it begins with an idea; a nebulous thought with an end in your mind’s eye. The edges are blurred and the details aren’t visible, but you can clearly see the end. Vibrant. Colorful. Joyful. Everything you could possibly hope for.

For you? It’s a house. A screened-in porch. A cup of coffee in a glade, overlooking a bubbling creek. You can’t see the floor beneath your feet and you can’t identify which birds you hear chirping, but you know you’re happy. And maybe you can even smell that Kona roast, drifting from your steaming mug. For you? It’s a job. A corner office, overlooking downtown. A title, emblazoned across your name plate on the mahogany desk. You can’t see the company’s name or identify the skyline in the background, but you know the way you feel when you stand at the window and look out into the city. Accomplished. Fulfilled.

For me? It’s a finish line. Red and black. Dusky sky. Cheering crowds. I can’t see the clock, but I can see a few faces in the crowd. My husband is there, smiling and proud. My children are there, exhausted but so very excited after waiting so many hours to see mama. My parents are there. My mom is crying, joyful, proud tears rolling down her cheeks. My daddy is there, arms crossed, trying to hide a smile, but I know he’s proud. My friends – who are much faster than I am – are waiting with their medals around their necks, sun-kissed and sweaty and exhausted, but cheering the loudest. They know the road I have traveled. They have just gone before me. Maybe we’ve clapped hands along the run course or stopped for a hug and an encouraging word. Maybe we’ve even been blessed enough to run a few miles together along the way. Maybe this is the first time we’ve seen each other since the cannon boomed, so many hours ago.

I can feel the excitement surge through me when I think of this scene. I can hear Mike Reilly’s voice, booming through the air. I can see the red and the black. I can taste and smell the finish line (and we won’t talk about that too much. . . ). I can clearly see the details of the goal, but the details of the journey aren’t yet clear.

Where do you begin? With a piggy bank full of coins? A mind-chart? Perhaps with a list of short-term goals and a strategy to get there?

Last night, I took the first step of making this dream come true. Melissa and I went to swim together for the first time since we dared to speak this dream into existence. She has gone before me. Redman, 2011. She knows the road and has traveled it alone. This time, we’ll travel it side by side, Melissa, Nicole, and me. Words cannot express how grateful I am for these ladies. These friends. These training partners. These prayer partners. I know that we’ll be there for each other, holding each other accountable, challenging each other, supporting each other, cheering each other along.

It somehow feels real now. Before, it was just a dream – a clear picture of a goal with no idea how to get there. This morning? It feels like we have some architecture and a timeline of how to get through the next 20 months. It feels like we have a plan, albeit a loose one at this juncture. It feels like we’ve stopped talking about the journey and have taken the first steps of this journey.

Waxing poetic, am I? Perhaps. But If I can’t be sappy and dreamy about my goals, they shouldn’t be goals at all. Here’s to the next 20 months. Here’s to building this dream into a reality, one day at a time. Here’s to stepping off this weepy soapbox, getting on my feet, and making it happen. 

Finish line? I’m coming for you.