The hard thing about making a five- or ten-year plan, God, is that: you’re much better at imagining than I am.
You possess working knowledge of all of the hairs on all of the heads of every human who ever was, is, or ever will be, plus you direct the cosmos–all the stars and planets and black holes–on the side.
You created the icy pattern of frost on my window this morning, blushed pink into the carnations I bought for the office…and you master-minded the Rocky Mountains while you were at it.
And they expect me to make a five year plan?
I want you to do it. I want you to make my five- and ten- and fifteen- and whatever-year-plan.
I want you to dream a beautiful dream–far beyond what I could compose or think to ask.
Bring the faces into my life who touch, challenge, mold me.
Take me to the places more beautiful than I could ever imagine– the countryside of Spain, the broken streets of my delightful Detroit.
You’ve written my desires, you know them. Now, then, give me You and more of You and this notion commonly referred to as “plans” can also belong to you along with everything else I have.
Amen and love, forever.