Last semester, I had an 8 a.m. class on Tuesday and Thursday mornings. Wednesdays, on the other hand, started at 9:45 a.m. This article concerns a very specific — and very traumatic—Wednesday at the end of the semester. Let me set the scene:
It was finals week (yes, the dreaded “F” word) and between papers and exams every student was on their last leg. Or their last coffee. Or both. Either way, not a lot of people were mentally “all there,” if you catch my drift. I was doing alright, but I was being cautious to make sure I didn’t accidentally miss a final or forget an assignment. So Tuesday night, I set my alarm for my 9:45 class and went to sleep.
I’ll take this time to explain one thing: I love sleep. The intensity of my love for sleep stands somewhere between the infatuation of two Regent freshman and passages straight out of the Song of Solomon. I’m saying that if power napping was a sport, I would be the equivalent of Usain Bolt. This gives context for the seriousness of what happened next.
The next morning, I was fast asleep—as peaceful as baby Jesus in the manger—when suddenly, at 7:55 a.m., my mother burst into the room. “¡¿Mira!? Pedo Joél!! Que tu hace??? You have class in 5 minutes!!” (Translation: “What the?!?! What are you doing Joél??? You better get outta bed boiii!!”)
Being half-awake and in more shock than an Indians fan when the Cubs won, I freaked out.
In my frantic state, I whipped off the covers, leaped out of bed and threw myself into the shower. About 2.68 seconds later, I’d finished taking the fastest shower in history and grabbed the first clothes I saw in my closet. When I got to the Comm building, I ran to where my class usually met and threw the door open at exactly 8:07 a.m., immensely proud of my speed. However, instead of seeing my professor, or any of the students in my class, I was greeted with the wary eyes of a class full of grad students and a different professor whose facial expression read, “Um, can I help you?” Without breaking eye contact, I slowly stepped back and closed the door again. A million thoughts ran through my head, but one cut through the rest as I checked my phone.
“It’s. Freaking. Wednesday.”
Seething, I walked back to my car. I went home, walked into my room and flopped back onto my bed, thinking that if I went back to sleep I could hit the reset button on this day.
However, there’s a specific reason for my writing this article besides giving you a couple of laughs (and venting about my day). Strangely enough, what happened that morning taught me something about my relationship with God.
When I went to sleep Tuesday night I had the entire next day planned, from the very first alarm ring to the last final I would study for—yet, when my mom woke me up, I completely forgot what I knew about the day and threw out everything I had planned.
A common struggle as a Christian is to figure out exactly what God’s will is, but there are times when we know exactly what God wants us to do. We tell him that we’re going to obey and plan to take the first step, but before we can get out of bed, someone bursts through the door of our mind screaming false information – and then we freak out. Every ounce of trust in God and his plan is drained and replaced by fear, anxiety and the feeling that we have to make it work a different way.
Never ever give into that voice. Whether it comes from yourself, a professor, classmates or even your own parents, every belief, opinion or carefully calculated plan pales in comparison to what the perfect God of the universe has in store for your life. Find what he wants you to do, even if it’s just one step in the grand scheme, and latch onto it with a white-knuckled grip.
Just remember – if it’s Wednesday, it can’t be any other day than Wednesday. And, I might add, don’t listen to your mom.