Radiant Tales: A dream is a wish your heart makes . . .

26 April 2020

A dream is a wish your heart makes . . .

I often find myself singing this song. . . Sometimes there are tears in my eyes. Other times I feel hope; like someday I will be able to love again.

And . . . be loved . . .

Though when I'm in a particularly vulnerable place, I just sense the hesitancy of my heart. How could I ever love again? What must I do? My heart, you see, isn't sure I can believe my dream. Love again? It just won't ever be. It seems to believe that my chance is gone.

"A dream is a wish you heart makes, when you're fast asleep. In dreams you will lose your heartache, whatever you wish for you keep. . .

"Have faith in your dreams and someday, your rainbow will come smiling through. No matter how your heart is grieving, if you keep on believing the dream that you wish will come true."

I guess that amidst all the pain, what I really hope is that someday, I will love again.

A dream is a wish your heart makes . . .

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Do not pray for tasks equal to your abilities, but pray for abilities to equal your tasks.
Thomas S. Monson

Let the Scriptures be your guide and you will never find yourself traveling the road to nowhere.

Thomas S. Monson

The Touch of the Master's Hand

It was battered and scarred, And the auctioneer thought it hardly worth his while To waste his time on the old violin, but he held it up with a smile.

"What am I bid, good people", he cried, "Who starts the bidding for me?" "One dollar, one dollar, Do I hear two?" "Two dollars, who makes it three?" "Three dollars once, three dollars twice, going for three,"

But, No, From the room far back a gray bearded man Came forward and picked up the bow, Then wiping the dust from the old violin And tightening up the strings, He played a melody, pure and sweet As sweet as the angel sings.

The music ceased and the auctioneer With a voice that was quiet and low, Said "What now am I bid for this old violin?" As he held it aloft with its' bow.

"One thousand, one thousand, Do I hear two?" "Two thousand, Who makes it three?" "Three thousand once, three thousand twice, Going and gone", said he.

The audience cheered, But some of them cried, "We just don't understand." "What changed its' worth?" Swift came the reply. "The Touch of the Masters Hand."

And many a man with life out of tune All battered with bourbon and gin Is auctioned cheap to a thoughtless crowd Much like that old violin

A mess of pottage, a glass of wine, A game and he travels on. He is going once, he is going twice, He is going and almost gone.

But the Master comes, And the foolish crowd never can quite understand, The worth of a soul and the change that is wrought By the Touch of the Masters' Hand.

Myra Brooks Welch

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26 April 2020

A dream is a wish your heart makes . . .

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