In the garage, my egg incubator holds the promise of almost forty chickens. I was busy and forgot to hold the eggs up to the light to see if chickens were growing inside. “Candling” is like the birdie ultrasound. I guessed I would just be surprised.

I purchased the incubator after a tragedy. I left the back gate ajar and dogs destroyed most of my flock. The greatest loss was that of our only rooster, Pretty Boy. He was only with us for a few months, but his presence held the hope of strengthening our numbers. Our all-brown hens would hopefully reproduce with the beautiful white and brown-speckled rooster. His integration into the flock was rough. The girls hen-pecked him each time he tried to eat at the feeder or cuddle up at night. They had allowed him to mate with some of them only for a few weeks.

All that was left of him was a giant pile of feathers in the backyard near the shed. My husband sulked and tried to contain his anger at me leaving the door open.

Only a few short days later, our second grandchild was born 10 weeks early. I didn’t take the time to mourn the loss of our birds. There were bigger worries on my mind, but somewhere deep inside, I held the hope that maybe some of the eggs were fertile. The eggs were spread far and wide, but people offered to give theirs back. I had a few in the fridge and some in a bucket on the counter.

After a few weeks, I purchased the incubator. I loaded it with the eggs, along with some eggs a neighbor gave me. Each egg held the hope of life, but our eggs held the hope of Pretty Boy’s offspring. Although he was dead, it was possible his bloodline could live on.

This is how it is with me: I pile my hopes in a warm place. I set the temperature and add some water to create humidity. I set the alarm on my phone and remind my kids to register for classes. Sometimes I pile my hopes of graduating college (something I never did) in them. Oh, how many hopes I piled up in the four youngsters under my roof… too many dreams to list. I want them to have everything I never had. I want to BE the mama I wanted to have.

Then there are the hopes I never tell a soul. I rarely tell my closest friends. I almost never tell my husband. I might not even say some hopes to the mirror. I don’t scribble them in my journal. I can’t whisper it in prayer because the hope is in the wordless place. It’s loitering in the back of my mind. The hope lingers on the edges of my heart. It is simmering in the depths of my soul.

I put 36 eggs in the incubator, simmering hope of new life. I had no clue which of these hopes would grow and hatch into reality. I have no clue if my hopes will become reality. That is why I cannot speak it. What if the egg is a dud? What if the dream is foolish?

Does a dream need to be obtainable to dream it? Does a mountain need to be “climbable?”

When you’re 28, all dreams seem reachable… someday. You can dream the big, harry, audacious dream. When you’re 48, your dreams need to be reasonable. At the very least, they should be definable. The clock is ticking LOUDER. It is almost a drum BEATING, “TOO LATE… TOO LATE… TO LATE…”

If you’re gonna have kids, better get it done. It’s too late to go to medical or law school. You would be retirement age by the time you finish. This is the time to wind down, not gear up. Your dreams lay dormant while you took the punches life handed you. Your hopes simmered low on the back burner while you made beauty from ashes. You tried your best not to simply survive but to find and make beauty in every day. The aspirations on the edges of my heart begin showing a little rot… a bit of decay.

Now the dreams seem a little bit like a “bucket list,” things to do before you die. That starts the timer I’d rather not hear. Yet I hear it and it drives me.

Even now, as I type this, I ask myself to put words on the hope. I ask myself what I hope will hatch from this egg that incubated for years. Is it driven by something holy? Is it something that will honor God? Will it further His kingdom or is it driven by my flesh?

I think the key is to surrender my dreams to God regardless of the earthly voices that resound in my ear. I had the courage to let them incubate. Now that the timer on the incubator counts down, I need the courage to let them hatch. Hatching involves putting words on the dream. It includes writing it on paper, maybe even talking about it to a spouse or a friend. Then God and I can have a conversation about the cries of my heart. We can discuss the things that emerge from the wordless place.

Some of the dreams might hatch into reality, others might die. Maybe that is why I am afraid to start the timer on the incubator. I’m afraid the dream will never hatch. I’m afraid it will die. I see the pile of feathers in the yard: another dream that perished. If I turn off the incubator and let the eggs grow cold, I will never know the potential each one held. I should not waste the possibility of life and have the courage to discover, come what may.