I have been reading Fredrick Buechner recently. His writing style is different than almost anyone I’ve read. He never really claims to be certain of anything. And to me that is refreshing. Some probably see that as heretical. But I don’t. I find it freeing.

The way he talks about God, Jesus, and what happens after death feels so just obviously honest. It’s kind of embarassing. It’s like while I read him it’s like I’m thinking, “Really? People can say that? Because that’s how I think a lot of the time. I just never vocalize it.”

I recently read and listened to Rob Bell talk about his office. What is on his wall. What is on his desk. What is his desk. It becomes a sanctuary. It becomes a sacred space. This is similar to how Fredrick Buechner talks about his office and the mementos he has around his office.

I’ve wanted that for probably my entire life. A place that is mine. A place where I go to think and ponder and contemplate and commune.

I want a nice desk. I want a nice reading chair. I want that sacred space.
Perhaps I need that sacred space.

While reading a book this morning I suddenly remembered a dream I had last night. (Which is somewhat of a coincidence because I had just told Sarah this morning that I haven’t been able to remember any of my dreams for weeks, and I think it’s a sign I’ve been quite tired recently.) Through my remembering of it, I also realized that I’ve had this dream in various sorts and in different settings quite a number of times.

What I can remember is not very detailed and not of great length. But I what I can vividly recall is having an opportunity to meet Donald Trump. We are always out in a large crowd. Sometimes I think it is arranged specifically that I meet him. Other times I think I am just one of many in a crowd who are trying to reach out and be seen by him. In all the dreams I do get his attention, if only briefly. But in the few moments where I have his attention I reach out my hand as if I am to shake his, but I pull it away at the last moment on purpose. His attention is then focused on my action. You can kind of see the wheels turning in his head trying to figure out did I just intentionally insult him with that gesture or not. So he tries to say something about being glad to have met me and thanks me for what I do, but I then look him in the eyes and spit on his face. Sometimes on his shoes.

Secret service grabs him and me immediately. I yell some things. I can’t actually remember what they are, but they are angry words talking about how he is a liar and evil for how he treats the poor and the immigrant.

And I wake up.

I remember only pieces of dreams that might be connected to those dreams. Ones where I am asked to speak on all the news outlets. That even though I am sentenced to a short stint in jail, I become somewhat of a hero.

Apparently I have a lot of deep seated feelings about Donald Trump. I never really get to fully express my incredible displeasure with him being our president. Apparently this is how those frustrations get out.