Last night I dreamed I was in a large, open-roofed, multi-level church, and it was time to "take communion." The church felt like a mix between the two churches I most grew up in: a big Southern Baptist one in Dallas and a big Anglican one in Malaysia. But it was populated by at least some people I know from my current (medium, Covenant) church in Mass. Instead of everyone heading to one railing up front (ala the Anglican one), or having ushers deliver the goods to us in our seats (ala Baptist), the large and casual congregation was heading in many intricately organized directions. I joined a group heading up some dangerous, haphazard rungs (not a solid ladder) to an upper floor with nothing but blue sky above. I knew it was not a good idea for us to be climbing so quickly and confidently. A small girl fell off the contraption and banged her head on the barn-like floor. Her hair flew completely off, in one piece, like a wig, but I knew it wasn't a wig. I yelled, "Somebody call 911!" and tried my phone. Which never seems to have reception in my dreams.
I don't know if that's when I woke myself up with the sound of snoring, only to discover, as my mind cleared from sleep, that I wasn't snoring. The sound wasn't coming from my nose or throat. It was coming from my chest. My chest was snoring. It sounded like road crews were doing construction in there as I breathed. Buddy sat next to me staring, half-inquisitively, half-annoyed at the disturbing interruption of our sleep.
But somewhere in the dream, I did get communion. Or it might have been another dream from another recent night. I remember stacking plastic communion cups in holders on the back of the pew in front of me.
Yesterday I got home from work 10 minutes earlier than I normally would on a Thursday night. I left campus about two and a half hours earlier than I usually do. After spending 45 minutes on a one mile stretch of the highway, I got off at the first exit after my school and took the backroads through three towns to get home. In Salem I got stuck on a hill heading up and after backing up and trying a couple of times, made it out of that neighborhood and onto a busier road, where I slip-slided my way up another hill toward Lynn. I stopped the car on the road three times to get out and wipe chunks of frozen snow off my inefficient, half-new and Canadian windshield wipers. I was going so crazy spending two and a half hours in my car on a 13 mile trip home, until I arrived and discovered through that great source of knowledge and communion (TV) that I was not alone. Some people left work at 1 and got home after me. We got less than a foot of snow, but I guess getting it all in about five hours was too much for the plows and traffic to handle.
It felt better knowing I (and the parking lot full of people in cars all around me on the highway) were not being singled out for some cruel experience, but that the whole region of New England was in the same big fat mess. Is that communing - being glad that we're all in the same mess (and thankful that we got out)? Rather mildly, I guess.
I don't usually remember my dreams, but between the party in my bronchial region, the socio-meteorological drama, and the odd dream snippet from last night, I figured Sharing is Caring.