The Life of a Prophet

Someone asked me what it was like being a prophet. I’m a prophet, so I guess I can answer the question, but only for myself.
It’s work.
I am by nature pretty lazy and selfish. I would prefer to spend endless hours reading and watching things which entertain. I’ve cleaned out whole sections of libraries, particularly the Science Fiction and Fantasy sections. I’ve read tons of physics and some history, played with peculiar math stuff. I’ve also wasted more time on computer technology than was really all that useful. I loved teaching, but I hated grading. I didn’t mind reading the papers, but I was mostly interested in seeing how well I was coming across. It was also a good way to get to know the kids.
I’ve always enjoyed horsing around outside. I’d love to just travel and travel and travel, and it wouldn’t bother me to suffer the most Spartan accommodations so long as it wasn’t risky in terms of harassment. You could stick me on a MAC flight with only nylon jump seats, take me to all kinds of places with only what I could carry, and if I could get any kind of food at all, I’d be happy for weeks. I love hiking and biking through every kind of terrain possible, just to see what’s there. I rather enjoy random encounters with humanity, too.
I don’t mind being ignored and not actually having to deal with people for long periods.
It’s not to say I no longer have any fun, but the driving force in my soul isn’t really that interested in it any more. It’s taken the same weak and lazy nature and run it through a meat grinder and a wringer, frozen then roasted, and while I’m still the same man, I’m changed beyond recognition to some. I don’t read too many books any more, because nobody much wants to talk about what drives me. When I go out for a ride or walk, it’s only so I can keep my ego busy while my spirit does all the work it can’t get done any other way. I am driven to eat very carefully, and seldom eat out because I don’t trust most places, but I sure do wish I had more time for work. If I’m not burned out at bed time, my brain is still running at warp factor 10, and I’m tempted to get up and work some more.
Most of my work is either studying or writing. My current context keeps me from doing a lot of oral presentation, so I write and write some more. And it’s never enough. It’s not enough to give vent to all the stuff bursting out of my soul. My long suffering wife has to put up with my ranting too much.
Try to understand how my entire motivational frame of reference has been hijacked. On the one hand, this is not what I want to do, but the wanting in me has been bulldozed repeatedly, and it’s not making much noise any more. Meanwhile, some overpowering force runs through me and I can’t stop. If your definition of “work” is limited to something which tends to earn a paycheck, then I’m doing nothing at all. I do get donations of stuff now and then, and only rarely money, but I’m not really keeping accounts of anything except the bare minimum necessary to keep eating and paying for the roof over my head. Were it not for family living with me, I’d not be too careful about anything but food. Maybe not even that.
This thing drags me along and I’m powerless to resist. From the time I open my eyes before dawn until they finally close in sleep, I’m running and running and running, but only in the sense of giving attention to the prophetic discernment of all things and what I can communicate about that discernment. I never take a break until my body and my brain just can’t keep up. I take a nap maybe, or just find something which will distract the flesh until my spirit finds a way to move forward.
By any reasonable human measure, I’m completely wacko. That’s my job, and it’s endless work. It’s also the only way I can find any peace.