“Broken dreams reveal what’s true to me. Broken hopes reveal what’s left of me. Broken promise to try to learn to live. But I fell into the sands of time… to feel alive.”

-Chris Mays, Alive

I hear the leaves behind me.

It is this path that I walk. Not one that I have chosen. No. But one that has chosen me. I did not ask for it. Yet it assigned itself to me. Like a shadow that I cannot shake in the midst of the midday sun. It reserves its greedy grip for me. It refuses to let me go. I am its obsession.

This path always aligns itself with a river. Does it have a name? River of Regrets? Perhaps? I do not know. But it exists as a reminder. To show me something about reality. To show me something about myself. What is expected. What cannot be strayed from. You see, it is where my dreams go to die. I see them often. Floating face down. Through the years I have seen the paint run through the waters, staining the shore in a dead hue of muddy brown. I have seen broken notes and dead melodies pass me by. And these words! These words that I pour my soul into. My passion. These words that no one reads. That echo endlessly into empty chasms and dark corridors. Only to come back to me. Empty. I have spoken the eulogy for each and everyone of them. I have reluctantly written their epitaph. With sorrow. And there will be more.

There are old rusted wheels and bolts too.  Broken wood. Splinters and rot. All of it scattered about. They line the path in various places. Here. There. Behind and some set before me as a premonition. A warning, if you will. These are the old plows that I put my hand to. To press on to something better. Some have made a short distance before their collapse. Some did not make it past my touch. Yet here they are. Broken hope. Broken promises. Mistakes, even. A graveyard that exists to remind me. Each piece forming its own tombstone. “Here lies the attempt…”.

I look over my shoulder. Through my peripheral I see him. Although I do not need to. I know who he is. He is always there. Always faithful to show up. I recognize his step. His breathing pattern I have memorized. I know it like the rhythm that God has ordained within my own chest. I walk on. I can run if I would like, but it is a promise that he has silently kept with me. To always keep up. To always catch me. Relentless.

His name is Failure.

I often wonder where this path will lead me. I have watched talents die. I have watched vocations be laid to rest. Some by my own hands. Some without my consent. Many regrets. Many lessons learned. One of which is that Life is not our own. Some people have the Midas Touch. They wrestle with it and take it by the horns. They make it bow to their will. They master Life. They pass their goalposts. They bury Adversity. Nothing can stop them other than Death itself. Yet others are bound by the will of Life. They strive but always fall. They are too exhausted to fight the losing battle of the day. They wipe the blood, sweat, and tears away with the white flag. They learn to dance in the rain. I too have also learned this dance. To master that which will never change. To accept it for what it is.

Oh look! Another dream. Let us bow our heads in remembrance. And shame.

I look upon the ridge and see him. He is watching. Pacing back and forth with his eyes piercing through. Stalking prey like a vulture. Looking for the opportune moment to strike. To feast. Sometimes he brings others. Hopelessness comes. Anxiety. Fear. The beast they call Defeat. But many times he acts alone. Selfish to keep the spoils of the one sided war to himself.

“The end of a thing is better than its beginning”

-Ecclesiastes 7:8

I have learned, however, his weakness. His Achilles heel. It is the learned art of division. To divide his kingdom. To watch it fall, only to see it rise again. A vicious repetition that exists only to keep me in survival mode. It is a recognition that the rusted wheels, splintered wood, running paint, broken notes, and hollow words are meaningless. In the end they will never really matter. They are flowers that have failed to bloom. Dead. Only worth being trampled under feet. Temporal. Things that will not stand in The Eternal Flame. Things that will not carry on past The Forever Sleep.

“He who has never failed cannot be great. Failure is the true test of greatness.”

-Herman Melville

It is a meditation upon the things that matter. A reparation of the things that are broken that are within my power to be saved. Husband. Father. Leader. Warrior. My Faith. My Salvation. Things that must not fall into the river. Things that must not become its own tombstone upon the path. 

The things that will matter when I stand before The Throne and hear my Lord say “Well done…”

Like night and day it is a natural guarantee. A certainty that Failure will be my master. My only obligation is to not call him such.

“I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith.”

-The Apostle Paul