Shattered Vision

The vision— shattered into a million pieces. Shards embedded in my feet as I walked out the door.

A vision shatters— a fragile pane of glass in my hands. I crush the shards, and blood seeps from my wounds. The vision was a mirage of dreams, and then I woke up.

But I had lived in that dreamland for half my life. What began as hope twisted into a nightmare, haunting our waking hours and invading our sleep with its relentless call— never-ending, inescapable.

Even in the later years, when the shards had buried themselves under my skin, and scars had formed and re-formed, they still bled. And I bled the vision, spilling it across the floor of Butler’s Kitchen.

I had been watching him run from the vision he had planted in us. He had driven it deep, let it take root, let it spread like cancer. But now, he no longer believed. And yet, I remained—a vessel of old dreams.

I tried to sell the vision, but the building committee only looked at me, confused. Why was I crying into my coffee cup? Why did it matter so much? What was the vision? Why cling to something the MASTER himself had abandoned? He was gone. Missing.

I had tried to reach him, but he met me with fury. I was not to question him. Why had the elders even suggested we talk? Their duty was to protect him— from me, us, the congregation, his friends, and his family.

His words shifted the shards beneath my skin, cutting fresh wounds, and the blood pooled at my feet.

My children entered the room. “Why are you crying, Mama? Who is making you cry?”

My husband called them away, softly murmuring, “It’s just the Pastor. The Pastor is making Mummy cry.”

I tried to calm my Pastor as he screamed over the phone at me, trying to do what I always did. “Let’s talk, as friends.” He softened…

But the shards of glass kept breaking around us all.

Sitting with the building committee over coffee, I was lost. We couldn’t ‘downgrade’ to a factory like all the other churches. We were ‘different,’ ‘unique.’

“Haven’t you heard his vision? Don’t you know the Disneyland dream?”

“Let me share it with you. Please.”

But where was he? Where was the Pastor? Why was I speaking in his place when he wouldn’t even speak to me?

The vision— shattered into a million pieces. Shards embedded in my feet as I walked out the door. I didn’t notice them at first. But the poison had seeped into my bones. And now, I feel it.

The vision had died. I had held it in my arms, whispering prayers over its fading breath, waiting—desperate—for resurrection. Like Lazarus, it had to rise. Otherwise, what was the point? What was the point of any of this?

But now, the vision lies buried— beneath rubble hauled away in skip bins, scraped clean, broken down, repurposed.

The wounds have been mending. Slowly. Some days, they reopen, seeping through old scars. I wrap them in bandages, lean on crutches, bind them in slings— waiting for the ache to subside again.