So I was informed recently by my two missionary brothers in my room that I talk in my sleep. This isn’t an entirely new idea to me. I remember my older brother informing me of another unconscious conversation from a camping trip in our youth. Still, this issue has not come up in years.
Apparently, it went something like this.
“I WIPPED MUD ON MY FACE!!! HAHAHAHA!!!!”
I honestly have no recollection of my dream from that night, nor any idea why I would be so excited about wiping said mud on my face.
After my missionary brothers informed me of this event the following morning, I quickly apologized for any an all future outburst I may have in the wee hours of the morning. I quickly followed it with some quip about them not wanting to know what was happening inside of my head and garnered a few chuckles.
Even with the laughs, I’d be lying to say I’m not more than a little worried about this situation. I mean, seriously, we all know we have some pretty messed up dreams some times. Some are just ridiculous (ask me about my Alaskan Whale dream sometime), some are waaaaay out there, and some are just plain disturbing. Couple this with the fact of your unconsciousness and a vocalization of this freakness and you’ve got yourself a serious problem…
The lack of control is what does it to me. I mean, basically it’s a crapshoot of which mental freakshow will be on display from me tonight. The next time my brothers approach me about this whole thing, it might not be as innocent as caressing my face with mud.
Who knows what’ll happen?
I’ve been feeling this a lot lately. And not just as I worry about the exposition of my mental illnesses during the night.
Who knows what will happen?
I feel this becoming a major theme of my life for this past two weeks and the next eleven months.
God has really been stretching me up here; asking me how much I really trust Him. Asking if I’m okay not knowing the answer to that question; asking if I’ll still place my trust in Him with out any control. I’ve said I do for years now. He is my rock and refuge, right? Then why has this been so hard?
I don’t know where the rest of my missionary funds are coming from.
I don’t know when I’m coming home next.
I don’t have a job to come home to next year.
I don’t have a vechicle to come home to.
I don’t have an apartment to come home to.
I’ve got $200 in the bank and medical bills to pay.
I have no control.
That’s what this is. True poverty. I have no control over what happening in my life right now. I’m literally having to rely on everything but myself to live. Quite the switch from the middle class suburban family life I’m used to.
I can’t deny it though, in the midst of all of this unknown, the lack of control, I’m excited. Am I scared? Heck yes. But I’ve always known what I wanted in my life: adventure. The excitment of waking up to discover what the new day will bring. To live for something bigger than myself, something I don’t fully understand, but soemthing that sets my world ablaze.
This is it.
God is the provider.
God is my rock and my refuge.
And I am freaking stoked.