I used to look for signs in my dreams. I thought the Holy Ghost was speaking to me through them, telling me what to do, guiding me to make decisions that, in hindsight, were completely inconsequential, like which tie I should wear or what time I should go to bed. At my most devout, that was the beautiful promise of Mormonism: that God wanted to talk to me. Directly. Personally. About even the little things. And that was the curse, too: even the little things seemed like they were of eternal importance. It was paralyzing to search for so much meaning in minutiae.
