I woke up swaying, lying in a houseboat, docked at a place previously described to me as the meth capital of America. Rockaway Beach, Missouri, was once a popular fishing and boating getaway for vacationers, until the White River it sits upon was dammed. Only cold bottom water flowed through now, making the river, and eventually the town, unbearable. Today, boarded-up arcades and ice cream parlors line the town’s riverside road that leads past its three main attractions: a gas station, a small bank and a giant billboard that reads “JESUS IS LORD.” And across from that billboard, behind the gas station, is the marina where I awoke in a houseboat, seriously questioning the course of my life.

 I had graduated high school in the spring of 2007, clueless about my future. Unwilling to pigeonhole myself into a major, much less the concept of college, I decided to take a semester off. My pastor told me about a nonprofit ministry that traveled the country, distributing free groceries to those in need. I figured giving the first fruits of my new adult life to serve others might open me to hear God and feel out what vocation I had in life, if any. At least it would make a good semester-off story if I eventually did attend college, so I signed on.

 With support and some cash from my parents, I set off that August for Springfield, Missouri. I met Don, the sweet, silvery-haired man from California who started the organization years back. I also met Brian, whom I’d work with. He was a soft-spoken, serious man pushing 30 and as unsure about life’s next step as I was. Three months prior, Brian had a white-collar job with Motorola in Kansas City. But it wasn’t fulfilling, and he wanted to serve God, so he quit. Don took us toward the back of the office building to show Brian and me where we’d be staying. “I know it’s not much, but here she is,” he said, opening the door to a huge, chunky gold and white Winnebago RV, with at least as many years on her as I had.

 Don explained our assignment for the next five months, which was pretty much exactly like MTV’s Road Rules, but without the money, TV cameras, or girls — we would travel in the Winnebago, meet with a partnering church and organize a “food drop,” whereby a semi-truck full of donated groceries would arrive, its contents distributed and a worship service held afterward.

 Brian and I were given the Winnebago keys and hit the road. Our maiden stop was Rockaway Beach. The town had no place to hook up an RV for power and water, but Don had a small houseboat docked there that we could stay in. Brian parked the Winnie in a gravel lot, under the shadow of the “JESUS IS LORD” sign. I lugged my belongings and waddled across the street, down swaying marina docks to the houseboat and found my bed. I felt heavy and the day felt long, so I slept.

 I opened my eyes, disoriented. I wasn’t used to waking up in houseboats or RVs. I rolled over and looked out the window to total fog. During summer, the intense morning heat would hit the river’s icy water, producing an eerie fog. Yet through the fog I could hear footsteps and talking. Brian was up, pacing the dock and talking on his phone.

 “So what do we do then? We don’t have a contact at the church anymore,” he said.

 More dock pacing.

 “So that’s two hours west then? We’ll get packed. Okay.”

 No more dock pacing.

 Brian stepped through the boat’s hatch with a change of plans. The food drop at Rockaway had fallen through.

 “So what now?” I asked.

 “Don’s got a church contact a couple hours west in Neosho who’d love to have us. We’ll head there tomorrow.”

 I sat in a houseboat in Rockaway Beach, Missouri, surrounded by fog, with nothing on my hands but time, which is always toxic. I thought of friends who’d filled fall schedules last spring, who were moving into dorms and making new friends, drinking shitty beer and falling in love. Did I make a terrible mistake? How did I get here? When I decided to take a semester off, I thought God would have me doing something cooler than this, like delivering bread to orphans, who also had diseases. Or really anything at all. But somehow I was here, doing nothing, in the fog.

 That night I crept out to an empty nearby field. If there was anything good about Rockaway, it was the stars. I gazed into the deep, black night bespeckled with white and cried out to God. I paced and I shouted. I pissed and I moaned. My soul felt heavy. With knees buried deep in the grass, I looked into the sky for my answer. It was vast, deep and bright. It stood still in peace, the kind I thought might swallow me if I waited long enough. So I did. I eventually walked back to the boat and my bed, satisfied, if not understanding.

 That night I had a dream. In it was Jesus, the white, Sunday school Jesus, with matching robe and blue sash — the one I prayed to as a child. He sat on a rock in front of a river. I sensed his gentleness. It’s odd that as much as I’d read and thought about Jesus, as much as I saw him on billboards and greeting cards and everything else, he’d never invaded my dreamscape. And yet there he was, still, almost glowing. Suddenly he opened his mouth and spoke:

 “You can be peace, or you can fall to pieces.”

 His words reverberated and rested before me.

 And then, I awoke.

 I didn’t know what to make of it. I kind of wanted to pretend it didn’t happen. So I scribbled every detail into my journal, shut it, and went about my morning. Soon Brian was once again pacing on the deck on his phone, once again in fog. I tried to ready myself for the worst. I failed.

 “What’s going on now?”

 “There was a shooting in Neosho this morning,” Brian said, his voice trailing off as he processed. “A gunman came into a church, held the crowd hostage and shot eight people. He killed the pastor.”

 National headlines confirmed the gunman as Eikan Eilam Siamon. He was 52 and, before injuring five people and killing three on Aug. 11, 2007, he worked in a poultry factory. Neosho, a small community of about 10,000, was shocked. And in the midst of this tragedy, we were coming to offer some groceries. Somehow I felt unprepared.

 On the drive, I sat silently in the passenger seat, rolling over the dream in my mind: You can be peace, or you can fall to pieces. I struggled with the dream. I struggled with its message. I struggled with being in a hot, busted Winnebago instead of pinning my Ramones poster on a dorm room wall. We rattled up to Meadowlark Church that afternoon and went in to meet the pastor. I walked in, rounded the corner and froze, losing breath and step.

 There on the wall was Sunday school Jesus, just as he appeared in the dream. The painting showed him on the rock, white robe, blue sash and all. I stood there dumbfounded, studying him in silence before backing up and slowly turning around. Then I saw a banner on the opposite wall, with big embroidered script: “Let there be peace.” I gulped, and a pinprick in my soul told me there was nowhere else I could possibly be besides here, now, in Neosho, Missouri. I would not be falling to pieces on this day. In the next week, Brian and I were able do more than deliver groceries to needy folks in Neosho. We also mourned with them. We cried with them, prayed and sang hymns with them. We broke day-old bread in communion. Peace, in ways big and small, felt near.

 Three years later, I’m finally in my last year of college. Professors and relatives often ask about my post-graduation plans, and I tell them I don’t know — that it’s like a wall of fog two feet before me. But I have no doubt that come May, I’ll take a blind step forward, open my eyes, and find that the fog has cleared. I’ll be where I’m supposed to be. I just pray it’s not Rockaway Beach, Missouri.