Here we go. This is a good one. I was dreaming a couple of days ago and my mind really stretched out to the fullest and went for a wee vacation. I dreamed that a particular man at a particular time, from a particular place zapped or teleported from where he was and ended up in my living room, some 4400 miles (as the crow flies) away from where he laid his head in Edinburgh, Scotland. I can't say from his home because he didn't have a home. He wasn't homeless, but he wasn't the leasee on an apartment, flat, house or cottage either. He was somewhere in between homes at the time of his zapping! I'll explain in the next few paragraphs, but for now, I will let you in on the biggest spoiler alert. I believe God let me have this dream so I could blog, so the man could read it, and he could understand for himself how it is that he is currently, and maybe how he should actually be - - if truth be known. Sometimes truth really is stranger than fiction - - this was a dream, therefore, fiction.
For security purposes we'll not give the man his real name. Nope. We'll call him Wilson. That's a good Scottish name. Remember, this is a dream, it did not actually happen. I want to make that clear so that no one from NASA comes to my house asking questions and looking over my new smart LED lightbulbs that I've just installed. You know when you do that, when you install "smart" anything in your home, you are putting yourself and the world at random risk and peril. Just sayin'.
Wilson, a man in his early 40s, recently divorced, recently finding himself released from jail, having served just under a year for something he actually didn't do, but plead guilty to in order to protect his family, was quite upset that having done the gallant and noble thing wasn't necessarily the right thing to do. While in jail he found himself abandoned by the very one he agreed to protect, she divorced him, and she told friends and family that she may have talked the man into admitting to the possession and use of cannabis in order to protect her from a similar fate, but because of Wilson's past (he was documented as being an addict as well as having served at least two stints in rehab for suicide attempts and thoughts) he was not taken to a regular men's prison to serve, but he was regulated to an inbound rehab center that housed him for over 45 weeks and gave him 24/7 "care" with homework, expectations of group participation, and the threat of staying longer if he didn't fully confess his wrongdoing and seek genuine recovery. The problem with that is that he really hadn't fallen off the sobriety wagon, so admitting to something he didn't do was both counter productive and internally hurtful.
After serving 45 long, boring, grinding weeks in the facility, Wilson not only had to sign documents that stated he was guilty and now on the road to recovery, he had to start his real stint of sobriety over from the several years he had accomplished back to Day 1. Down the drain; all because he wanted to give the kids a chance to stay with their mother rather than trying to forge a method of creating an income on his own without her being present were she to be rightfully arrested and not him. He couldn't work, he was disabled in a way, (he was a guitarist, trained classically) and he lacked the credit and had no specific working skills other than regular labor. Regular labor would not have been keen enough to support the little family; they would have had to move, they would have had to live penny to penny, and without their mother, the kids, about to go into their teens, may have been a bit more rebellious than the man could physically and emotionally handle. The clever wife convinced Wilson to take the wrap - - he did, and she booted his ass right out the second she found the opportunity to do so.
Having left the center, Wilson was accepted rather reluctantly by his father, to share a two bedroom flat on the lower south end of Edinburgh, where his father had lived for years and had been storing and stashing things (again for years) in the second tiny bedroom. In America we call these rooms larger closets with windows. In Scotland a room measuring over six feet in either direction is considered a "single" bedroom. The room was in fact six and a half feet wide and seven feet deep. The room had a tiny old beaten mattress in the corner, propped up against the wall just so, and a number of boxes, bags, old clothes, piles of useless social worker materials and records which long since could be thrown out. There was a dresser and it was empty of clothes, but full of older papers and things again that could be disposed of, but the day and time really never arrived for his father to "get around to it" so it never got done. Today was that day, and Wilson had started the process necessary to call the place his own room. He may not have much, and what he had may be useless to most, but it was his, and he was going to make it work. His only real possession that mattered, was his guitar -- that was his. It was good. The guitar kept him alive in rehab. Not that he was able to play her, but he knew one day he would do so.
Having managed to forge through the wreckage(s) in the tiny room and built the makings of a real lodging, Wilson decided that a new start would only be enhanced if he were able to have at least a few pair of new trousers, maybe two, and of course tee-shirts, pants (what they call underwear in the UK) and socks. He definitely needed socks. The spring and even early summer in my neck of the woods may be warmer, but not in good old Scotland. The man needed his socks. Calling out to his dad to let him know he would be back, not to wait up for him in case he needed to stop by a take out restaurant to enjoy real food again; Wilson headed off to the Asda, their version of our Walmart. He was on a mission for a few new things to start this new chapter.
A little over half way to the store Wilson realized he had left his wallet at home and couldn't possibly buy the clothes and other items without his debit card. He had lost his actual bank account while in rehab because when she divorced him the wife took his share of the money of course. His father had loaned him a bit to get back on his feet, and this was his new card in his new wallet that he had left in the other pair of trousers that he had just changed out of in order to be a bit more presentable at the store. Walking back to the little flat Wilson seemed both preoccupied and a bit depressed, but who could blame him? It's hard to start over. It's even harder to start over when you shouldn't have had to put yourself through what he had put himself through. He was mad. He had the right to be mad, so he rather indulged a bit on those feelings and no, he didn't see the car speeding around the corner just as he stepped off the curb. SPLASH! OMG...water went EVERYWHERE and by everywhere, I mean Wilson's only decent pair of "pants" were soaked clean through as were of course his trousers, shirt, socks, and even his light jacket that he hadn't needed to zip up -- there weren't enough words to describe the deep emotional inner voice inside of him that just wanted to scream "NOOOOOOOOO" and be done with it.
Arriving back home more angry, more wet, more or less pissed to the point of kicking anything or anyone that dared to cross his path, Wilson reminded himself over and over again that he was a Christian man, and this was just a fantastic phase, it was a real opportunity to seek a little deeper, to love and praise, to think good things, to send out worshipping whispers, and yes, it took every last ounce of control he had within his body to do just that. He must have missed his dad, not even glancing to see where he may be, Wilson drew a bee-line to the bathroom, undressed and showered. Allowing the hot steaming water to rush and run over his tired and absolutely irritable body and soul. He wanted to lay down and throw a tantrum, that would have actually felt pretty good, but he just leaned his weight against the wall of the shower and let the water cure him.
Dad came to the hall, realizing his son was in the shower, and just opened the door enough to collect his clothes for the washer. I think he may have said something about Wilson being back sooner than he thought, maybe he asked about the purchases, not seeing the bags, and yeah, he took the dirty wet clothes and threw them on top of the half filled basket already in his collected arms. Upon leaving the shower and wrapping a towel about his waist, Wilson made it to the hallway, looking both ways thinking he thought he heard his dad, but not really making more of an effort than grunting under his breath about this or that. Once in his little room the towel hit the floor and Wilson began digging through the otherwise tiny pile of his secondhand clothes that were given to him upon his leaving of the center. One or two other men who had been about his size had donated the clothes to him hoping to cheer him up a bit since everything he owned had been thrown out by the more than thoughtless spouse. She couldn't even see fit to let him have his own things.
Having not accepted any pants from the men, Wilson continued to dig around the pile of clothes seeking and hoping to find his own underwear but not really seeing them - - his head on a swivel, glancing to the left, glancing to the right, and then it happened. He was literally ZAPPED out of his room, out of his dad's flat, out of his country, out of everything imaginable and there was literally no time between the zapping and the replacement, he was just THERE. Where? Where was he? Good question. He was in my living room, that's where he was, and yes, he was naked.
Keep in mind that Wilson and I have never actually met each other. We know each other. We haven't talked on the phone. We haven't been friends. We haven't really even been communicating in the past year or so since he was in the center. He read my blogs from time to time, and often, to be honest, he was angry about what I had written. He wasn't necessarily a fan, let's put it that way. I had a way of being honest and he had a way of avoiding conflict. He and I didn't have the conflict, no, he had the conflict singularly, absolutely in and with himself about me. He couldn't understand and he refused to try to understand, that a person (me) could love someone like him without being sexual, and without being possessive. He had a problem understanding that a person like me (actually me) would have a command and/or directive from God (not man) to pray for and to encourage him (Wilson) without the side issues of being in love, infatuated, or otherwise dreamy eyed and upside down with emotion. Well, that would be his cross to bear, not mine.
Glancing around, still glancing, that one, he didn't know where he was. He didn't recognize the wall art. He didn't understand why the sun was still shining when it was clearly setting at the time the car had splashed water all over his body, and that's when he noticed the digital clock on the wall -- it was 3:12 p.m. and when he had climbed into the shower he remember hearing his dad's mantle clock strike the hour of 9:00 p.m. What the hell just happened? It was about this time, maybe what, four seconds post-teleportation, when Wilson realized he was standing wherever he was, butt-naked. Some say buck-naked, but he was thinking more along the lines of butt-exposed-front-exposed naked, that and his hair and beard were still wet. What happened?
OK, there was so much more that took place, but the whole gist of this story is this; I saw the man standing in my living room and rather than scream and freak out I realized he needed to be covered. I immediately sat down my green tea that I had just fixed and I moved past him, all the while talking to him, and reassuring him that however he managed to find his naked self into my living room this fine late spring afternoon, I was not only going to accept him into my home, I was going to receive him into my home, and the two things are very different. I managed to find a robe for him that I rarely even use but own, and it did cover him.
Laughingly amused obviously by the story that certainly had to be told, I walked into my bedroom, into the closet, and I pulled out a box labeled "Wilson" on the side of it. I had months previously been told of God that I may very well need to prepare for an off-the-wall situation, one that required me to be alert and yes, I had gone to the store and picked up a pair of sweat pants, underwear, a man's XL tee-shirt and a pair of socks. I think I actually bought a 4 pack of underwear and a 6 pack of socks, but in the box was just enough to clothe a man who may or may not just happen to pop into my apartment in need - - and yeah, because God had directed me to do so, I bought the items needed to dress that very man who actually popped into my living room in very much need.
Wilson stared at me with extreme anger and disbelief. Because (BECAUSE) I had presented him with the best gesture of goodwill known, he accused me of teleporting him, or somehow having the ability to do so, and it was literally my doing, my fault, my scheming, and my obsession that forced him to be taken from the safety of his father's house to this, a place he would never have imagined to have come to, and to be with me, a person he would NEVER have accepted or received had the tables been turned. OK....so, what does that tell you? He's an ass and I still love him to the point of praying that God will show him that he's exposed not only physically, but emotionally, and he needs to be protected, prayed over, and given what he needs to function. I was the culprit in his eyes, and he was the one God had asked me to care for in my eyes.
The What If factor comes into play here. What if I had been zapped butt-naked into his father's home? Would I have been received? Possibly by his father who would have been cordial, sweet natured, and curious as to what was happening, but I know I would have been forcefully escorted out of the nearest door by Wilson. The police would have been called. I would have been labeled an exhibitionist even though in reality I had been teleported without my knowledge, and into a place where I had no control. The WHAT IF factor comes into play here in that what if Wilson's daughter had been zapped into my house instead of himself? I would have been accused of being a kidnapper, a pedophile, and somehow I would have been labeled a stalker - - even though she was zapped into my place without my consent, and without my blessing. Now, flip that. He was zapped into my apartment. He was standing in my living room naked. I didn't call the police. I didn't scream. I didn't accuse him of misconduct. He was the one blaming me. Even as I handed him the clothes, and was trying to explain to him that months before God had directed me to not only buy the articles, but to write the event in my journal. I was still being blamed for the actual teleportation.
My saving grace in this entire matter was that I don't even remotely understand quantum physics and I wouldn't have a clue how to draw up a scheme to somehow transfer a person's body from one spot to the other. Here's another WHAT IF. What if he had been zapped to another house instead of mine? What if he had been taken to his music producer's house where there is a wife, kids, and possibly neighbors having a block party? Would he have been accepted? Would he have been received? Cared for? Protected? What if he had been zapped into the London Heathrow airport? Maybe Asda? Maybe a nursery school? No! There was ONLY ONE PLACE that man could have been teleported to and have received the care and necessary compassion where he received it -- and that's with me. Even his own cousins would have betrayed him, taken photos of him, posted these photos and made dreadful fun of him. Given his situation with the recent stay at the center, he could have been rearrested, given 5-10 years for exposing himself and more - - even though it wasn't his choice and he had no control. God knew exactly where to send the man.
I convinced Wilson to take a seat, have some dinner, and drink some tea. I think I even offered him a bit of Melatonin (10 mg) to calm his mind and take the edge off the twitching and the tightening of his shoulders and arms. He was scared and with good reason. His phone was back in Scotland, and he didn't know his dad's phone number, but using Facebook he was able to reach his dad and get through to him. His dad called my phone and the two talked for a while about what had just happened. It was decided NOT to tell anyone because he could face legal ramifications for having "flown" to the U.S. without a passport. His father put a box together with a few things including his wallet, passport, and new clothes, clothes his father purchased for the box before sending it through Amazon to my place. Wilson, after three days of being heard, listened to, pampered, fed, understood, and we'll go ahead and say being befriended, decided that I wasn't the complete and utter enemy he may have believed me to be. He once had mentioned to me that he knew I wasn't an enemy, but he didn't feel comfortable talking to me about personal issues. I get that. What if? What if I was the only one to really understand?
So many of our friends fall off the "friends" lists and the "follows" when or if they get wind of hearing that you've done time for petty felonies and/or harder misdemeanors. Not wanting to give you the benefit of the doubt or even listen to your explanation, an employer will let you go, fire you, terminate you, even ask you to never contact anyone from the company again, just because you screwed up and had to spend a little time incarcerated or maybe on the community services list. You tell your employer you need off to do community service and guess what, you're no longer employed. Friends and family find reasons to not communicate. Hell, even church members shun you, ignore you, or they put that pious face on and say they'll pray for you, but ask them to hold your hand and pray, and yeah, that's not happening. What if you were zapped away and taken to the ONE place you would never have imagined being at on your own, and with the one person you've put blame on for so long (because others told you to) that you began to listen to the lies?
Well...here's the thing; it was a dream. I know it was a dream, it wasn't real, but I would like to think that Wilson (if only in real life) would begin to understand that I'm there to help, not to hinder. Since the whole thing was so realistic and strangely rational, I decided to do what I think would be best. I went to Walmart and bought a pack of underwear (XL boxer briefs) a pair of sweats (also XL) and a man's tee-shirt with short sleeves. I figure if it's cold outside and he may need another shirt I can find a sweatshirt hanging in the closet that my son left behind. I bought socks too. I have them in the box, and yes, I even wrote the man's name on the box - - sort of a joke really, but not really, because if anyone is going to be teleported into my house and cosplay as Naked Bearded Man, I really wouldn't mind it being - - well, we'll call him Wilson.
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