Some of the inspiration behind The Voice – you can sample this melody at https://www.stantonlanier.com/the-voice.php (just copy into your browser). By the time I was in high school I had become a worrier and perfectionist, and was overly conscious of what others thought of me. The voice I often heard in my mind was my own, criticizing my performance and pouring on more pressure to succeed. God was part of my life, but it took a long time before I deeply explored the possibility of hearing His voice. Could He actually guide my steps in life? Could He provide the wisdom, discernment and comfort that I needed?  Could I really hear His voice? The more I have pursued this, the more I have encountered profound conversations and intimacy with a God who cares for me beyond my comprehension. Try playing this melody in an extra quiet place . . . be still . . . and listen.  “. . . the Lord was not in the wind; and after the wind an earthquake, but the Lord was not in the earthquake; and after the earthquake a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire; and after the fire a still, small voice . . . Elijah heard the voice. Whether you turn to the right or to the left, your ears will hear a voice behind you, saying, ‘This is the way; walk in it’” (1 Kings 19:11-13; Isaiah 30:21). Pursuing God and hearing His voice more clearly are lifelong pursuits that will never reach perfection in my lifetime, but making progress one day at a time and by God’s grace is definitely worthwhile.

What are your “dreams in the night?” (What are your greatest fears and doubts?) I composed Dreams in the Night for the Unveiled CD in 2006-2007, and often play this song in concert. I like to include it in the program to reach those in the audience who are struggling with fear and doubt over some life circumstance (I often have these struggles in life too). My story about this song has always been about this theme of life’s anxious thoughts, which people connect with right away. Then, this spring I literally had this “dream in the night”…

The dream…I was the second pianist to perform in a packed auditorium of 500 people or so. This jazzy, upbeat, singing lady pianist was the first act and had the audience clapping and singing along. I was wondering if they would connect as well with my peaceful, uplifting melodies, visuals and stories (Fear #1). It would be a hard act to follow, so I decided to go find a piano to practice for a few minutes before I would be called to the stage. I couldn’t find one, so I went out the back door and there was this field. I kept walking and I realized it was a field of pianos that were old, weathered and worn out. It was like a car junkyard, but with pianos. As I went from one piano to the next, none of them would play. Time was getting short as I walked further into the field. I needed to get back to the auditorium, and would have to play with no warm up (Fear #2). As I quickened my pace to get back, out of the shadows two men approached me asking for money. I thought they were going to rob me (Fear #3). I was scared, but was able to say “no thank you” and make it back to the auditorium. However, now I was late for my performance and everyone was waiting and wondering where I was (Fear #4). Then I woke up. I usually don’t remember dreams, but this one was like a weird movie and stayed with me. It clearly illustrated some of my “dreams in the night,” and reminded me to keep alive a sense of child-like faith in God as I live life’s moments. What is your “dream in the night?” What steps can you take to nurture your child-like faith?

Most of my childhood memories about playing are pictures of the outdoors.  I grew up in Chapel Hill, North Carolina from 1964 to 1974.  I can’t remember exactly when, but sometime after my two younger brothers were born, around the time I was five, my dad had a pile of dirt dumped right between the driveway and the swing set.  To this day my brothers and I can recall the hundreds of hours we spent on the “dirt pile.”

After some outdoor fun as a toddler with a tricycle, a running water hose in the back yard, and the most amazing device called a sprinkler that sprayed all those thin water lines (and you could even run through it!), the dirt pile became and integral part of life. I was in heaven playing on the dirt pile, or riding my bicycle, or climbing trees.

The dirt pile allowed me to use my imagination.  I also got to control the story.  Maybe the coolest thing was the strategic battles with those little green army men.  Or maybe it was the largest dirt corporation in the world being run by dump trucks and bulldozers.  Something about the dirt pile was extra special.  I think it was because my hands were the creator of tales of grand adventure.

I got a “brand new” used spider bicycle (with the banana seat) for my 6th birthday.  It didn’t have any training wheels, which were rarely seen in those days.  I still have the picture of me sitting on the bike leaning against a pine tree to make it look like it was standing up.  I practiced riding in the grass in the backyard at first.  The swing set was beside the dirt pile, and about a twenty yard stretch of grass ran down a narrow yard that ended at the clothes line.  On one of my early rides my balance was good, but I could not focus on steering at the same time, so I ran right into the clothes line pole.  The trial and error and scrapes were so worth the reward.

I can remember it like yesterday.  The exhilaration of that first real bike ride.  There was nothing like the wind in my face.  The speed was intoxicating.  Then I was inducted into the bicycle fraternity of jumping.  I could fly yards in the air off a makeshift homemade ramp.  I was invincible.  Somehow this surpassed the dirt pile.  I could engage my whole body – feet, legs, hands, eyes, and mind – in creating an adventure that I lived in.  The dirt pile was still great, but it just could not compare to riding like the wind at the speed of sound.

There is something in the human heart that longs for adventure on a growing scale.  It wasn’t too long before my brothers and I began climbing every tree in our yard that we were able to master.  We didn’t have a big yard.  The family estate was a perfect compliment to the three bedroom, two bath house with partial basement.  There was the persimmon tree.  There were some dogwood trees.  There were oak trees.  You could climb part way up one of the dogwood trees and then cross over to an oak tree that you could climb a little higher on.  Climbing trees gave a sense of freedom that even a bicycle could not.  It wasn’t riding in the wind.  It was viewing life through a tree, above the world, one with the wind, at peace with nature and people.  Now I was ready.  The dirt pile, my bicycle and climbing trees in my yard had trained me well for Mt. Everest – the sweet gum tree across the street.

There was this towering sweet gum tree.  You know, the kind that has the little prickly round balls that fall to the ground (sweet gums).  They were brilliant green in the spring and summer, and turned brown and died when they fell to the ground in the fall.  The tree was barren in the winter, revealing its giant frame that could hold as many little boys as could climb up into its arms.  The trunk was way too big to put my arms around.  To climb it, you had to get a friend to hold their hands together to form a step so you could reach the lowest branch.  Oh how sweet a climb it was after that.  There were dozens of branches to stop on and take it all in.  Every spot was marvelous.  The pinnacle seemed about a hundred feet higher.  Once you reached the highest branch you could still sit on, the world seemed so much smaller down below.  You would sway a foot or two in the wind up there.  It was only pleasure though.  No fear.

It was always fun dropping (and throwing) the sweet gums from up in the tree.  I guess the projectile DNA is hardwired into boys.  One time some friends and I decided to see if we could hit a car as it drove by.  My heart would race with every attempt.  The game was on.  And the fear of what would happen if we actually hit a car.  Well, of course, we finally hit one.  It skidded to a stop and the screech of tires about scared us half to death.  A man got out and pointed up at the tree and yelled something.  It sounded like the adult talk in a Charlie Brown television special (bwa bwa bwa bwa).  I recall butterflies in my stomach as I was throwing them, followed by a gasp as I feared death at the hands of sweet gum road rage!  But the driver decided not to climb the tree to get us.  As the car drove away we all had a sigh of relief and started to retell the story to each other like Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn.  We didn’t need to throw any more that day.

My soul was stirred every time I climbed that sweet gum tree.  There were secret things I discovered up there . . . freedom from worry, the independence of a bird, the choice to pause and take in the beauty, the awesome power of nature.  I was part of something a lot bigger than myself.  It was like I had a part in the story.  There did not seem to be any limitations on what was possible in this life.  Did you have a “dirt pile”?  Did you have a “sweet gum tree”?