This is the way my nightly prayers typically begin. I’m sure by now the Lord thinks I’m just an ol’ grump, and I would imagine that he probably doesn’t look forward to my prayers. I can just hear his secretary: "Lord, I’ve got Dave Myers on Line 1."

"Uuuug," God responds. "Just when I thought it was going to be a good day. Oh, well; send him through. Oh, and cancel my 6 o’clock. I don’t think I can take Dave and Dr. Phil."

Believe me, I’ve tried to look on the bright side. I really have. You know that little angel who sits on your shoulder telling you to look for the good in people, that you are oh-so-lucky, and that downing a pint of booze will only result in your problems being enhanced by severe gastro-intestinal discomfort? I’ve bombarded my angel with so many worries and woes that she’s taken up smoking. And she’s developed a twitch.

Meanwhile, the little devil on my other shoulder doesn’t care what I do as long as he gets to watch the national news every day. Says everyone needs a good giggle.

This night was no different. I told the Lord that I was sick and tired of all the lunacy. I told him about the bombings, the shootings, and the general carnage in the world. I told him that the vegetables in my garden received better care than most humans, and many of them have worms. The vegetables, I mean.

Then, my anger at a peak, I said, "I’m beginning to wonder just who’s in charge down here."

I immediately regretted it. I know that God is just as upset as we are about the ugliness, and that when I say to God, "It’s nuts down here," he must respond, "Yeah, I know! I can hardly believe it sometimes, and I’ve seen a lot, believe you me."

I think that he laughs with us, he cries with us, and when the world goes all hooey, he gets downright angry with us. He’s not someone to complain to, he’s someone to complain with.

So, why do I gripe to God when I should be assured that he’s the most fed-up of any of us? Perhaps what I’m really seeking is reassurance.

On that night, after my usual complaints about the world around me — after I prayed for my loved ones and for all-those-in-need-everywhere — I made a simple request. I prayed that God would communicate with me in a dream.

God had communicated with so many others through their dreams – Joseph, Mary, the prophets, Oral … . Why not me? It was a prayer said in earnest — a plea for verbal communication, a request for spiritual reassurance.

It wasn’t like when I was a child and I prayed for my ventriloquist doll to come to life. (Kneeling at my bed in my darkened room, I really did pray for nearly an hour for the little dummy to come to life, assured that having "the faith to move mountains" was akin to having a genie in a bottle. It didn’t work, at least not very well. Yes, he came to life, but he was an avid supporter of the Nixon administration.)

It was about two years ago when I actually requested that God communicate with me, and that night I really did have the following dream:

It began with Satan and me in the midst of battle in the tower of an ancient church, sunlight barely filtering in between aged wooden planks, dust rising like smoke. I could see his silhouette lit against a stained glass window as he flew above me. Strengthened by the knowledge that I was acting as God’s liaison, I demanded with loud and fervent resolve that he leave the premises.

At this point, it gets a little fuzzy. We both flew tirelessly around the room, him evading my demands like a fly avoiding the swatter. My lithe spirit gave chase, only to slowly realize that Satan was going nowhere.

You might say the last scene was the most troubling, and yet it makes the most sense. The dream ends with a temporary détente; Satan and me sitting on the steps inside the old church tower sharing tea, an unspoken agreement that he would always be around, but that I, with God’s help, would always be there to do battle.

When I awoke I felt immediately at ease. Sure, there will always be tribulation, but so too will there always be God at our side – ever our strength and our hope. He had just assured me of that.