I had a dream in which I stood at the pulpit of my old church. I’ve done so before. When I was asked to read the prayer and verse before the offering.
I stood waiting for the congregation to simmer down. Someone had spoken before me and folks were still applauding and talking. I waited. An old man in the crowd seemed distressed. I didn’t know him but he seemed familiar. Intimate.
I waited for the crowd to quiet so I could share my verse. I thought. I was about to open my mouth and speak. I thought. The old man leaped to his feet and rushed to the stage as if to save face and prevent social disaster. He patted my shoulder, smiled, and I sat down behind him. He cleared his throat and let his passifying voice wander into an every Sunday sermon.
I was supposed to give the sermon I now realize. I was supposed to speak. With passion. It was my once chance to share my heart and influence others. I politely waited and missed my chance.
