Out of the Ashes to Dream Again

There are moments when the heart pulses with vision and purpose, and there are moments when the soul feels like it’s staring at a wall—short-sighted, depleted, unsure what to hope for next. Psalm 126 speaks directly into both seasons. It remembers a people carried off for seventy years and then brought home by God’s stunning mercy. “When the Lord restored the fortunes of Zion, we were like those who dream.” In the Hebrew sense, that line is larger than a night vision. It is health returning, wholeness coming back, vitality refilling the bones. Mouths fill with laughter. Tongues find songs. Even the watching world is forced to admit, “The Lord has done great things for them.” And God’s people echo, “The Lord has done great things for us, and we are filled with joy.”

That is the shape of restoration in Scripture—not a thin optimism, but a holy reversal that only God could accomplish. The psalm is honest about tears, too. It promises that those who sow in sorrow will reap with songs of joy. Tears are not wasted in the kingdom; they are seeds. In time, God turns planting done in pain into a harvest that sings.

It is the nature of the Holy Spirit to awaken dreams. On the day the church was born, the promise from Joel echoed through the streets: God would pour out His Spirit on all people—sons and daughters prophesying, the young seeing visions, even the old dreaming dreams. Heaven’s intent was never a dreamless church or a dreamless disciple. God is not primarily interested in rubber-stamping our personal ambitions; He is intent on entrusting His dreams to our lives. That is why true Christian dreaming sounds like bold proclamation, steady vision, and expectant endurance. It looks at the not-yet and says, “In God’s time, yes.” It looks at the how-in-the-world and says, “God will make a way.”

If the Spirit plants dreams, the enemy works to smother them. Delay can make hope feel naïve. Betrayal can fracture trust. False accusation can stain a name. Being overlooked can slowly drain courage. Exhaustion whispers, “Sit down and stare at the wall.” Success can quietly reroute devotion toward self. Comparison convinces us someone else is living our life better. And sometimes real losses—grief, collapse, consequences—pile up like rubble. It’s no wonder so many hearts park in the nearest seat and settle for a view of cinderblock. Yet the gospel refuses resignation. The God who restores exiles knows how to lift people from the ash heap and plant them on the path again.

Psalm 126 puts a prayer on our lips: “Restore our fortunes, O Lord, like streams in the Negev.” The Negev is dry country, crisscrossed with empty riverbeds. Then a storm breaks, and what looked lifeless roars with a sudden torrent. That is how restoration often arrives—God’s timing, then a swift turning. Scripture pairs those ideas again and again: “In its time, I, the Lord, will do this swiftly.” We want quick on our schedule. God gives quick on His. It may not be today, but when His moment comes, it will feel like rain in a desert wadi—unexpected, unmissable, unstoppable.

There is also an ancient path beneath the layers. Pilgrims in Israel bathed in the Pool of Siloam and walked a stone road up to the southern steps of the Temple to worship, pausing on each of the fifteen steps to recite a Song of Ascent and re-center their hearts. Much of that road sat hidden for centuries beneath the city—out of sight, but not erased. That picture helps when life has layered over your story. Beneath disappointment and delay, God still keeps a way to His presence. His pilgrimage road is not gone; it is being unearthed. When He uncovers it before you, take a step. It may be small—go, say, wait, give, return, forgive, believe—but steps are how exiles become worshipers again.

If you could take a core sample of your life today—drilling down through the layers of regret, loss, missteps, and long seasons—what would it show at the center? The God who restores is not hunting for perfection; He is looking for a heart that still says, even faintly, “I am Yours.” If that’s there, you are not disqualified. You are exactly where grace loves to work.

Restoration does more than refill your tank; it reorients your aim. When God brings you out, expect laughter to return—careful at first, then free. Expect a widening of horizon—less dread about tomorrow, more holy curiosity. Expect humility to deepen—less grasping for control, more grateful dependence. Expect precision to grow—clearer yes, kinder no, energy aimed at what lasts: people and God’s Word. And expect the outcome to glorify God among the nations. The psalm is explicit about that order: the watching world first says, “The Lord has done great things for them,” and then God’s people say it for themselves. Real restoration is unmistakably God-sized; it makes bystanders worshipers.

If you have become the punchline in your circle—or if you feel like the punchline in your own head—hear the psalm’s promise. God can take the laughingstock and turn the laughter into praise. He can lift you out of the rubble, put you back on the steps, and teach your tongue a new song. But do not miss the endgame: the dream He restores is ultimately for His renown. You will get your joy back, but the Dream-Giver will get the glory.

So name what was buried. Grieve what was lost. Ask for streams in the desert and for the pilgrimage road to reappear under your feet. Refuse the seat in front of the wall. Choose a step. And when the torrent comes, let your life be the testimony the psalm anticipates: “The Lord has done great things for us; we are filled with joy.” The Spirit still pours out dreams. The Father still brings captives home. Jesus still turns tears into songs. You can dream again—not a fragile fantasy, but a God-given, God-aimed, God-glorifying dream that blesses generations.