I Dream

dream

I dream of a house filled with children. . .
        and toys and home school supplies and craft supplies. .  .
            and wheelchairs and walkers and physical therapy gadgets.


I dream of house that uses art and music to touch hearts and souls that normal words can't quite reach.

          of beautiful faces on twisted, bound-up bodies. . .

           bodies that most people would look at with pity and even revulsion, never once, seeing the soul in the eyes that shine forth.

Of my biological children that are healthy and strong and are learning the art of love and compassion because this has become their life. . .
     making our house a home for the children who need one.


I dream of a house, that has it's walls covered with pictures and digital art of loved children.
    Children caught in laughter and play,
          determination and perseverance as they push through their hurdles
                and memories with Mommy and Daddy.


I dream of parties each night when Daddy comes home. . .
     because once he's home, all is right in our world. . .
         just as it should be.


I dream of a home, where frightened children, walking through our door, with a welcome home song playing for them

(I'm still trying to find that song, but I'm thinking, In My Arms by Plumb, may just be that song. . . )

    taking in with their eyes, the other children who are contentendly playing, or reading, or napping,
       daring to believe they have come home to a safe place.


I dream of a home that has baskets full of fresh fruit
     and a refrigerator stocked with fresh vegetables
        and a pantry full of whole grains and beans and lentils
            and a root cellar full of root vegetables and canned goods

because the residents believe that putting whole, living food into living bodies,
   is one of the secrets to unlocking a trapped mind
       and healing a fragile body from the inside out


I dream of a home that is big but not necessarily beautiful.
   It's not beautiful in the sense of the world with expensive artwork or fancy decorations or plush furniture or carpets. . .

       but it's beautiful because it is handicapped excessible
                   and it is lived in
                       and children's art work is framed and hung because it has become the art gallery of art galleries.


I dream of a home that looks out at bird feeders
      and children who forgot how to smile before coming to live there,
           laugh at squirrels stealing food and blue jays chasing them away.

    With a large garden on the premises, fenced in against the deer that wander through of course,
         to make their way to our apple trees on the property
            with chickens scratching around near the door, looking for plump juicy bugs
                 and a goat, or two, or three, that are tied up somewhere near it, eating our grass for us, while making us that rich creamy milk that will make the children's bodies strong.


I dream of a place where children are safe
    and loved.
Cherished
   and treasured.

A place,
    where a bit of heaven is experienced
       in a world where too much hell has been lived.


A place that shouts
      Refuge!
         Safety!
           Security!
              Love!

Because that's who God is. . .
          and it's God's heart that built it.


    This is the dream God's heart has given my heart. . .

The Meadows

Per Mama Kat's Writer's Workshop writing prompt for the week:

The word for 2011 is
dream