on roots, and dreams…

I wake in the middle of the night and don’t really know where I am.
I’ve dreamt of our apartment, on the fourth floor, in Germany.

In my dream, I walk down the stairs; my steps echo into the basement.
I see the cold, damp foundation, dug deep into the black German dirt.

The roots, creep their way through old cracks, looking for water to drink up.
The water travels through the roots, to the trunk- stronger than the wind.
There’s a hole in the tree, not unlike the cracks in the foundation- wear and tear.
 The trunk gives way to limbs, thick enough to climb on.
Then sticks, twigs, and bright green leaves…

The leaves reach for the sky, for the sun- stretched out for warmth.
I press my face to the cold glass and glare at the tree from the fourth floor.
I’m struck with the idea that it’s all connected.

Something stirs me awake.
I blink through the dark and notice the red-clay-stained shoes on the floor.
My heart grows heavy, because I’m not where I think I should be…

None of it makes sense, I know that… But somehow, it does.
I left Alabama all those years ago, scared I wouldn’t fit in, scared I’d cry for home.
And I did- fit in and cry for home.
Slowly, Germany creeped into the heart that Alabama never left.
There’s room for both. There’s room for more. Heartache leads to healing…

Figure it out. That’s what He’s telling me…
He has a plan.
It’ll be ok.
He’s telling me that, too.

(the pictures in this post are the last pictures i took in germany. be still my heart.)