The doors don’t always open that one thinks are sure to open. I have to admit, I was staring at one set of doors for a very long time, completely missing the one that was facing a little bit in the wrong direction, the one with the scratched paint, tarnished doorknob, and rusted hinges. It was a door I’d forgotten about, I suppose. It had gotten covered over with cobwebs in the house of my mind, and then forgotten.

When I first started studying music at the local community college on full scholarship, and then transferred to a state school, also on scholarship, I assumed I’d pursue a career in…well, music. It made sense. And when as a recent highschool graduate I was in my lone year as a theatre major, I assumed I’d be doing something theatre related. And as a winsome, whimsical junior high and highschool student, doing multiple plays a year, sewing costumes, and writing like a fiend, I never thought I’d be here. Here being possibly my favorite place on earth, with my favorite people: the Black Hills of South Dakota, with my beloved family, living in a little log cabin my grandfather built.

Some of those dreams have been brought full circle. My writing, for one. A passion I rediscovered with frenzy while studying music. A passion I now realize goes far deeper than other interests I’ve developed. My sewing, for another. I was recently hired by the Hill City Mercantile, a fabric and quilt shop in a nearby town.

But the South Dakota dream is older than possibly any other dream I’ve had–I recently stumbled across an old memory book of mine, probably from when I was ten, or younger, and I answered the question “What do you want to be when you grow up?” My answer involved horses and South Dakota. God has brought me back to this dream, and made that dream a reality. What a gift! I can’t even begin to explain the thrill and joy of being here, starting over, and waking to realize that it isn’t a dream, but is my new life.

When that door began to open two years ago, there was a beautiful, fresh, clear breeze that sneaked in through the crack, a breeze that started blowing away the cobwebs of my imagination. Sometimes, a well used imagination gets busy spinning ideas, until soon the gossamer dreams have become large, confusing webs draped over the beauty of reality. Those cobwebs have blown away, and I’m so thankful for that old door, rusted hinges and all. It has waited a long time.