How on earth did I become a hopeless romantic? It wasn’t the wildflowers that did (not) grow in my childhood backyard. It wasn’t the soft music that did (not) fill our home. It surely wasn’t the laughter that did (not) echo off the walls and through the halls.

Was it the “Nots” that got me to dream of more… of different… of better? Sort of.

Among the “Nots” was something tangibly more… something different… something better. It was a map of dreams. It was a map that became reality. It was a map that made history. It was a map that I often held in my hands while my soul soared through the heavens. It was… A Map to The Moon.

Day after day I unrolled the thick shiny paper across the floor of my childhood bedroom. The map stretched from nearly one end of the room to the other. Yes, it was a small room. But still… that’s a long map! It was filled with countless dotted lines that wove in and out of each other. I had no idea what all the dotted and woven lines meant, but it did make sense to my dad who helped chart that map for the Apollo 11 spaceflight.

While holding that map, I dared to dream of what it might be like; to break out of earth’s atmosphere… to float without gravity… and to go to the bathroom in a spaceship. (I still have not figured out that last point nor do I want to.) You get the idea though… The Map to The Moon was a tangible reality of what can happen when people dare to dream together.

So let’s go back to my opening statement about me being a hopeless romantic (although I prefer to think of myself as being a hopeFull romantic.) All my world collides with music and lofty ideals and finding beauty in a sorrowing world. Am I a dreamer? Absolutely. Unashamedly. Yes. I am of the brave company that believes there is more… there is different… there is better.

When I look at your heavens, the work of your fingers, the moon and the stars, which you have set in place, what is man that you are mindful of him, and the son of man that you care for him? Psalm 8:3-4

Heavens still declare God’s Glory. Ocean waves still resound with thunderous praise. Lilies of the Field and Roses of Sharon still whisper of God’s tender care. And music? Well… music is everywhere. It’s in the whistling wind. It’s in the cicadas concert on a warm summer’s night. And…

It’s in a moment like this… when you turn on the Golden Oldies and close your eyes and dream and dance to…

Fly Me to The Moon with None Other than Mr. Frank Sinatra