There’s a story told about a little girl who lived in a very humble home and used to gaze wonderingly at a house on a far-away hill, whose windows, every morning, would shine with a golden light. Years later, when she got her first bike, she went to see that house, riding up the steep hill on the far side of the valley until she reached it. But by the time she got there it was afternoon, and the morning sun no longer reflected off its windows, which were actually rather plain and dirty, and the house itself was derelict. Disappointed, she looked back across the valley, and saw the light of the setting sun flashing off the golden windows of another house. It was then that she realised that it was her house, and that everything she’d been dreaming of had always been there, all around her.
Maybe that’s true of us too.