Some dreams are not meant to stay the same.

Some must evolve.

Some must be set aside.

And some, when the time is right, take root and flourish.

A wise man once said, “Write the vision; make it plain on a tablet. For the vision has an appointed time. Though it lingers, wait for it, for it will surely come.”

I have always been a dreamer. Not just in vision, but in the night hours—where I am often visited by three, sometimes four dreams that stir me awake or carry my mind into wandering. Some dreams bring me to my knees in prayer, while others awaken a flicker of hope.

The dreams of the night remind us of a deeper truth: we are also born to carry waking dreams—visions for our lives, our communities, and our future. And just like night dreams, these visions can stir us, unsettle us, or bring us to our knees.

Dreams are part of our design. They breathe life into what feels dead. They awaken us, guide us, and sometimes humble us . Across cultures, dreams are seen as sacred, never wasted. Whether shaped by memory, imagination, or divine whisper, they remind us that we are more than what we see.

Yet here lies the tension:

We live in a culture that wants vision to be born before it matures.

We crave an audience before we’ve mastered the art of speaking to one.

We long for applause before we have been faithful with the little.

We push visions into the world too quickly—and in doing so, we risk aborting them before their time.

But the most meaningful things in life require space to grow.

The richest meals are slow-cooked.

The most transformative conversations happen in stillness.

The most profound books reveal their wisdom in long, quiet hours.

So it is with dreams.

Unfinished dreams are not failed dreams. Some are never meant to be heard or seen by most—because they are for our shaping and refining. They test our faithfulness in hidden places. They stretch us in obscurity, asking: Will you water the seed no one else can see?

Every gardener knows the soil must remain dark and hidden long before green shoots appear. So too with us—unfinished dreams call us to patience, endurance, and trust. They are seeds—waiting, stretching, transforming in secret—until the appointed harvest.

And when we learn to wait, to release what must evolve, and to hold hope for what will yet take root, we discover our dreams were never wasted. They were preparing us:

to see more clearly,

to live more deeply,

to envision more boldly.

So before you despair over what has not come to pass—or grieve what feels wasted—pause and ask:

What am I becoming? And what is becoming of my heart?

Because the dream is not separate from you—it is you.

The pain, the suffering, the joy, the molding—these are all part of the dream.

You are not meant to remain the same. You are meant to break open, to grow roots, to reach toward the light—

and in time, to flourish.

Selah!