If I’m concerned about why I’ve changed in the way I have, I might start by being concerned about the places where I’ve been.

Today is the fodder of tomorrow’s dreams, so we’d be wise to invest in today so that we don’t show up with empty hands tomorrow.

And so the seasons turn, leaving the parting season holding out the sure and certain promise of the one to come. And if we are sufficiently naïve to refuse to relinquish the season that is passing, we will completely forfeit the promise of the one for which the passing season existed.

Life is the march of all things resurrected and being resurrected. Behind each flower, every tree, each nesting bird, every breath that we take, and every cherished dream that we hold there runs this irrepressible theme of resurrection. For life is not so shallow or weak or inattentive as to permit the finality of an end.

If I were to be brutally honest with myself, how often is my journey actually a path designed to circumvent my journey?

I wonder how often it’s less about getting out of where we’re at, and more about giving ourselves the illusion that we’re trying to get out of where we’re at. And in the scandalous action of trading the fear of what ‘could be’ for the pain of ‘what is,’ we have traded away the whole of our lives.

The fact that we can’t see the horizon in front of us is because we’ve focused on the carnage behind us. And if we face backwards long enough, we become convinced that the carnage behind us is the horizon in front of us.

I can choose to see a horizon as yet another indistinct place that I can barely make out from where I’m standing, or I can see it as the backside of a glorious tomorrow. And the attitude that I choose to embrace will dictate every horizon that I get to pursue.

I can ruthlessly press my imagination out beyond its very edges, and even in such a remote place I have not begun to touch the barest periphery of God’s imagination.