The sea’s shattered dreams washed ashore and my children picked each one up, crying out at the beauty in each piece, carrying them to me for inspection. We carefully dropped each one into our bucket to wash later with great care and display in their bedrooms.
Each shell, though broken, was a miracle beyond our ability. We cradled each one delicately, whispering how beautiful it must have been whole. Our hearts praised this world beyond our reach, a world so magnificent that even to find a shard washed up at our feet, discarded, was to find a coveted treasure.
I wonder if our dreams are like these broken shells: infinite, delicate, patterns and colors and textures, churned by rough sand and sweeping tides. I imagine them washing ashore in heaven, where angels gasp in wonder and bring each shattered treasure, in joy, to God the Father. Yes, when it was whole, it was magnificent, but just to dream, to imagine new worlds and breathe them into being, is a thing of awe and wonder to the angels, because angels can’t dream. To dream, to call into creation a new world of thought, deed, or love, is the gift of God that we alone of all His creatures are blessed with.
Someday, perhaps, when I walk through the gates of heaven, an angel will rush forward to meet me, carrying a big jar of the broken remnants of my life, displayed with love and awe in heaven. So dream today: a tiny one, or an extravagant one, it doesn’t matter. Angels are watching for them on the shores of heaven.