It’s been one of those weeks when I’m so busy I forget the basics of life; the kind of week I promised myself I’d never have after graduating from college. You know, the kind of week that typifies bachelor living – an unmade bed complemented by a growing pile of laundry on the floor, late nights, early mornings, and fueled mostly by scrambled eggs and trail mix. At least I dropped Mountain Dew from my diet years ago because if I’d spent the week chugging that liquid atrocity I’d feel really guilty right now.

I hate those weeks because my head gets so filled with thoughts that it feels as if it’ll fracture into a million pieces from all the stress. If I had time for peace and quiet, I’d make it; but that just hasn’t been an option. Sure, rest would be nice, but what do you do when rest is impossible? More importantly, when life gets too hectic to allow you to satisfy every desire, what do you allow to take the ultimate priority?

Nearly four years ago, I had a dream that drastically changed the way I think. In the dream, I was sitting in a relatively small room with a bunch of friends. The room was mostly filled with a table that we sat around on long benches that were pushed against the wall. That night, the benches were completely filled except for the one seat directly across from me, next to the door.

My friends and I gathered around the table and began to talk and joke around. I kept looking to my right and left, talking to friends on either side, laughing and joking as if this was something we did every week. After a bit of this odd conversation, I turned from my left to my right and was surprised to find the seat across from me occupied. I stopped talking, dumbstruck at the beauty of the woman sitting across from me.¹ She was staring directly at me with such intensity that I could have sworn she could read my thoughts. I stared back at her for a moment, but quickly turned away because I couldn’t find a word to say; her beauty rendered me speechless.

The oddity of her presence was that no other person in the room ever so much as acknowledged her presence. And she didn’t say a word. She just sat there and stared at me. I resumed talking to my friends on the either side, hoping to buy time until I could find something to say to her. She was so beautiful all I wanted to do was talk to her, but it seemed that no clever word ever existed in her presence. And I was terrified.

Now, let me explain. When I say this woman was beautiful, I don’t mean that she just had a good-looking face. No, that’s too trite. She wasn’t a just creature who happened to be gifted with beauty. Her beauty was deeper. I was something she exuded, something that emanated from her. She didn’t possess beauty like the actresses and models idolized in this country. She *was* beauty, as if the quintessence of beauty could take form and inhabit my dreams. It may sound strange, but trust me, such beauty is as terrifying as it is fascinating. It wasn’t some sickly sweet puppy-dog fascination born in me as I saw her face; it was cowardice, as my every insecurity stood before me like an army battalion with guns aimed directly at my heart.

I turned to the people at my left, half listening to their conversation as I sought even a single syllable to speak to this woman. Nothing came. I turned to the right in my frantic search, as if my friends might have those precious words written on their foreheads. Not a chance. I turned back and forth, back and forth; each time trying to steal a glance at the beauty before me. Each gaze made me die a little death longing for another glance, but simultaneously disrupted any hope of regaining speech in her presence. And the most perplexing part of this strange encounter is that she never looked at anyone but me, as if she was looking for my undivided attention.

I turned once more and noticed that her expression had changed. No longer pleased to be in the room, she looked as if she was on the verge of tears. Our eyes met and she suddenly stood and bolted from the room. I knew that her tears had been my fault. I found courage somewhere and leapt over the table in a fashion that would make Spiderman proud.² I found myself in a long, dark corridor. I couldn’t see the woman, but knew she’d gone and ran after her.

When I finally caught up, I called to her. She turned and it was obvious that she’d been weeping from deep sorrow and anguish. Never in my life have I caused someone that kind of distress. It was awful to see, and all the more painful knowing that it was my fault. I asked her what had happened to make her leave our little gathering. Still weeping, she said, “You don’t get it, do you? I wasn’t there for a party. I wasn’t there because I needed a good laugh. I was there for you. I was there because I want your whole heart, but all you were giving me was little glances. I couldn’t bear it any longer, because every glance was nothing more than a tease to me. I want your whole heart, but I can’t take that kind of heartache. So I left.”

Her words stabbed me in the chest. While I stood reeling from the pain, she looked me in the eyes, still weeping. She was no less beautiful for the tears, but they evoked a sorrow in my soul I can never hope to describe. I read the anguish in her eyes as if it were written in them. I stared, completely aghast, trying to find the words to express how sorry I was, how my insecurities and fears had held me back, how her beauty so terrified me. But looking in her eyes, all those words fell useless to the ground. And she turned and walked away.

I woke and sat in my bed for what seemed an eternity. The beauty’s eyes were scarred in my memory; her tears were my torment. I spent the day quietly praying about the dream as I helped my brother clean his house. Finally, the Lord answered.

“Joe, in that dream, I am that woman.³ Daily I look at you. Daily I try to gain your attention. Daily I hope to win your whole heart. But all you give Me is little glances – fifteen or twenty minutes as if I’m some sort of hobby. I am not a hobby. I came for your heart. Will you give it to Me? Or will you continue to break mine by glancing at Me as if I’m some sort of pass time? Will you love Me?”⁴

It’s been four years since I had that dream, but it comes to mind nearly every day. It’s an idea I cannot shake: have I given Jesus all of me?

When the weeks get long, hard and utterly panicked, we all have to make certain priorities. It’s part of life; we can’t do everything we want to do. As for me, let the clothes pile up; let my facial hair grow long and itchy; let my bed be unkempt like my roommate’s hair. The Lord’s asked for my whole heart, and I will not take that for granted until the day I stand before Him and see those eyes flooded with tears, not of anguish, but of joy.

“His master said to him, ‘Well done, good and faithful servant. You have been faithful over a little… enter into the joy of your master.”

+ Matt 25:21

¹ Don’t ask me to describe her. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t. Chalk it up to the oddity of trying to remember a dream.
² Don’t judge me; it was a dream.
³ Please understand, I am not claiming that God is a woman. I’m just saying that’s the symbol He picked to get through my thick skull in that dream.
⁴ Now, Song of Solomon 4:10 is often quoted around IHOP. I’m not saying that the Lord isn’t pleased with our efforts to love Him, however small they may be. He was challenging my attitude toward Him, not my attempts to love Him. And either way, I side with C.S. Lewis, who said in The Problem of Pain, “Love, in its own nature, demands the perfecting of the beloved… Of all powers he forgives most, but he condones least: he is pleased with little, but demands all.”