ready or not

Slowly, working my way through the expected recitation of numbers, 98 . . . 99 . . . 100, I would then yell out, "Ready or not, here I come" and begin to look for all those who had found a place to hide.

The best place for hide and seek was Grandma's barn since by the time my sisters, cousins and I were old enough to be allowed the freedom to explore outside of the house, there were no more horses or any other animals making their home there. A chute where hay could be dropped into a stall became a passageway we would learn to maneuver as well as the ladder that led to the hay loft. A big, old barn can provide hours of fun for those able to create the right game. There was no better place to hide or to seek.

We naturally divided up into teams and even though I can admit to the unfairness of this now, my cousin, Michael, and I were the oldest so we would choose to work together to outsmart the younger ones and win every time. We were in charge. We created a version of the game and made up the rules to suit ourselves. The younger children would follow us and try to keep up even though we were always dodging them.

It seemed that each time we had figured out a new twist to the game that would make it even more challenging, and we would have barely worked out the finer points of this new, improved version, the unmistakable sound of my mother's voice, calling us back into the old farmhouse of her youth, would echo through our made-up world and we would have to reveal our hiding places and go home.

There was always the hope that we would come back and it would be better the next time. I remember waiting for that to happen. But then came the day of the auction when everything of value was sold. Eventually the house my mother grew up in became someone else's home. My last memory was finally getting to go into the attic and playing with what would have been considered antique toys even then--the kind that were made out of metal and wood and required imagination, not batteries.

We would take a drive out on the dirt roads by the old house whenever my mother felt like reminiscing, but someone either was not careful in the kitchen or the house was struck by lightning. In any case, it burned to the ground. Michael, the cousin I most looked forward to seeing at my mother's family gatherings, died too young.

To make the discovery of whatever it is that makes my heart sing is a glorious feeling. At last, I have found something I can put all my energy into, I tell myself. From this point on, I have a new goal, a new outlook on life, a new calling. I see life in a whole new way. It transcends words shining through my smile and my near-sighted eyes. Feeling more powerful I take up running again. I make an effort to reveal my heart to prospective friends. I tell myself it is going to be different this time. From now on.

It is then my natural inclination to try to hold onto this feeling, this hope, this dream as tightly as I can for fear that it will get away from me like a balloon filled with helium whose tiny string playfully slips through my fingers. I make a mad scramble to hang on with everything I have got. And then it is gone.

I think about the once-in-a-lifetime occasions that I did not figure out how to do until they were over. The less significant events like having an epiphany on the way to turning in a research paper, suddenly knowing that I had completely missed the point of the assignment, but now possessed the insight I would not have an opportunity to expound upon pales in comparison to details missed on the morning of my wedding, or what I should have done differently in the process of giving birth. I knew how to get better grades in school after I graduated with a grade point average that did not reflect my ability. Likewise I knew how to put on a wedding by the time ours was over and had finally learned the most efficient way of pushing out a baby by the time we were done adding children to our family.

It is only rarely in life that I have had the presence of mind to understand what is happening while it is going on. And sometimes right in the midst of life going well, I have had the sense that because I am doing what I love it is only logical that this could go on forever. And should. But it doesn't. Something happens. People change their minds. Unexpected scenarios rear their ugly head. The ladder that appeared so sturdy has broken rungs.

And I, like my nine-year-old self, am left standing in an old empty barn as the sun is setting and the wind turns cold. Not wanting to leave the game that had gone on seamlessly for hours, I walk slowly into the house to get ready to go back to the reality of a working farm, where I spend a great deal of time in the house to avoid getting sunburned or breaking out in a rash from the fertilizer.

There I find a different hiding spot and resume my adventures in my books.

taking the time

A friend stopped by to see me while I was selling my wares at our local farmers' market on Saturday. Though I get a lot of sewing done while I sit behind my table, when I am not reading, of course, I am open to conversation whenever it comes my way--with vendors at nearby tables, curious passersby, and especially friends.

This particular friend wanted me to know of her intentionality to see me, as she shared a sad story of how she kept putting off seeing another friend until one day she was told of that friend's death. We are only middle-aged. Our friends are not supposed to be dying yet, but sometimes they do. This friend of hers had run a store and every time my friend would pass it, she would make that mental note: I'll stop next time. When there is no next time, it makes one realize that if there is a second chance, take it.

Friendship does not require as much as some may think. A few well-chosen words, a smile, a warm embrace, are enough to move a stranger toward the friendship category. There are, of course, acquaintances: those to whom we express the pleasantries of the day by remarking how beautiful the weather is, but unless an effort is made to break through into a more intimate exchange of information, a smile and a nod may be as far as it goes.

Taking the time for someone is to show that person respect. It is to say--I care about you, tell me what is going on. It does not require a great deal of time or money. The visits can be short and not terribly emotional or even that deep. When someone wants to take the time for another it can be as simple as having a cup of coffee together, sitting in chairs talking, taking a walk, even emailing or texting can create a little closeness in the midst of the busyness of life. I value my time, what precious little of it there is. Therefore, when I give it up for someone I care about, I show that person that he or she matters to me.

Taking the time to reconnect with someone is easier said than done. We all have schedules, deadlines and more work than we ever seem to have time to accomplish. Though we may desire to get together with friends, this idea takes its place in a long line of necessary ways to spend a day. A friend asked me recently if I ever had a conversation on the phone anymore. I didn't have the heart to tell her that I have never enjoyed speaking on the phone so I do not miss it, but no, like my busy friend, we are fortunate if we can answer an email or a text. We do not have the luxury of talking on the phone, unless we are already doing something else.

I have walked into a nursing home a couple of times recently to visit the relative of a friend. I was told she would not know me, but she never really knew me to begin with so it does not make a difference. She answers questions I do not ask and makes statements that do not make sense to me but does so with a smile and a sweetness of demeanor. She was once a brilliant, beautiful woman, I am quite certain, and though it is terrible watching someone deteriorate, this is the way she will live out her days until she goes on to glory, and there is nothing anyone can do about that. Giving her a few minutes of time here and there is all that is left to do.

Lord of the Rings readers will remember Gandalf's comforting words to Frodo, who was expressing regret over what had happened. "All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us."  We make the best decisions we can at the time, never knowing what the future will hold. Taking the time to do a kind gesture for someone is its own reward. There are no promises, no regrets--only choices.

As I went down my mental checklist the other day to try to remember everything I needed to do, I suddenly became aware of my mother's upcoming surgery and realized I had not called her, the one phone call I still make somewhat regularly. By the time I got around to it she and my dad were in the car on the way to the hospital. I was relieved that I had not missed the opportunity to spend a few moments talking with her about her health issues and reasons for medical intervention. She would talk until they reached the rest area, reminding me that her recovery may be long and she will not be able to talk for awhile. By the time we said good-bye I was already placing her in the doctor's care and into God's hands.

It is that way with me every time someone leaves this house. It is my practice to walk to the back steps and wave good-bye. In case anything keeps them from returning home, I need to know that there was a little bit of closure. I am even like that at work. I start my day with greetings and end with brief farewells. It is important for me to take the time to manage my life in this way. It is more intentional even though we are not in control of the outcome.

The friend who came to the market to see me bought a little pillow I had made with the letters l-o-v-e sewn on it from a scrap of red taffeta. I remember thinking that fabric would have made a great retro prom dress. The other fabric used for the pillow was found on a bolt at the Salvation Army and has sparkling birds among its designs. It looks like it would upholster something--maybe a small chair. My friend said it would match her bedroom. I think it matched what was going on in her heart.

in my Birkenstocks

It is impossible to know what is going on in the mind and the heart of another. Even if someone chooses to share this information with me, there are too many variables to ever get it exactly right.

So we make assumptions about each other. He is yawning; he must be tired or bored. She curled her hair; maybe she needs attention. He is dressed nicer than usual; perhaps he is trying to make a good impression. Her eyes are red; she is either suffering from allergies or has been crying.

We can appear as though life is great. Our clothes are clean and we have paid attention to coordinating them in appropriate ways. Basic hygiene goes a long way in allaying the fears of the observant. Looks good + smells good = must be ok.

Recently I have learned that a prayer request means praying for the needs of another and not yourself. This is easy. It also deflects attention if your personal prayer request would not be accepted or understood. It isn't that anyone wants to judge. It is just that there is often not enough time to thoroughly explain. Nothing feels worse than to have something major diminished by a quick, dismissive prayer, equating it to some triviality in life. If I have trivial prayer needs, I must be thought of as a pretty shallow person, I tell myself, as I realize it is too late to take back my prayer request. Never mind, I want to say, don't trouble yourself with it. God has got this one.

It takes discernment to know who is able to handle what is really going on in my life. Some just do not have the capacity for such truths. I do not like to share my "stuff" if it will turn into the only thing brought up each time I make contact with the person--kind of like it was when I was pregnant. I started off wanting to share the news with the world and could not wait until I grew into my new maternity clothes. My baby bump filled me with unimaginable joy, but as time went by I would be asked the same questions, over and over . . . for months. When are you due? How is your pregnancy going? Are you excited about the baby? And on and on it would go. I would long for someone to remember who I was apart from the upcoming blessed event. I was relieved when my doctor referred to the baby as a parasite since I had secretly been feeling like the host it was feeding on and wondering if that would make me an unfit mother. Apparently all that science fiction I had exposed myself to had few deleterious effects on the actual child rearing, or at least that is what I would like to believe.

Once the baby was born, the conversation could revolve around the child. Sometimes it still does. How are your kids? Your husband? Your dog? And then the conversation is over and I wonder what happened to inquiring about me. I make a mental note not to bring that issue up as a prayer request.

Of course I often do not completely share what it is that is going on with me. In fact it would be more accurate to say that I never do. This is not to indicate that I have no friends because I do--some really good ones. I have friends I have known for years and some I have known for only a short time. Some are people of faith; some may never believe as I do. Aside from all of that, there exists a gap in understanding, as it exists with everyone. We each have a unique perspective, an individual bent, and our own cumulative experiences that form us into who we are.

Because I am a writer, I have this whole inner life filled with possible scenarios, scripted with characters playing varying roles. Like imaginary friends pouring their hearts out to me, I have non-stop thought processes going on in my head. Need time alone? Even when I am alone, I am not alone. I know the voices of the actors in my play are all mine so I do not need to worry about passing a psychiatric evaluation, though I will not be taking one any time soon just in case.

There also exists the spiritual component which is a voice different from my own. It is the impetus to put certain words together to form poetry. I obey, usually, knowing that at some point the words will reduce me to tears thus verifying their supernatural origin. This is what I love about writing AND about having a relationship with the Almighty. I also love the fact that if I do not feel like saying anything, my deepest needs are already heard and answers are forthcoming. Well, sometimes not exactly the answers I am looking for, but at least an acknowledgement that I have been listened to.

Maybe this is why I grow impatient with the whole sharing-my-needs-with-others idea. It requires a great deal of effort often resulting in misunderstandings. It is my hope to present myself the way I want to be and honestly ask for prayer regarding those needs that are beyond my reach of fixing. I long to be understood by others in the same way that God understands me and it is just not possible. Good attempts are made when I will allow for them. Love is given and received. There is only one reason why I cannot be fully known by another.

It is because the only one who walks in my Birkenstocks is me.

I have decided . . .

I went to church today with a tray full of cookies and a heart full of hope. The cookies, my signature recipe of molasses cookies made into sandwich cookies with the butter cream frosting in the middle, are the now expected item I bring to covered dish events, in this case the luncheon after the church service. The open, expectant heart is how I live on my good days.

As a member of the choir I needed to take my tray to the fellowship hall as quickly as I could walk downstairs so I could get to the music room, while having a delightful conversation with a woman I often sit by in choir about the delicious meat we were served at the pig pickin' the night before. Finding my seat in the choir loft I began to adhere my page stickers onto the pages of songs selected for service designated in the bulletin. We would then have a short rehearsal and stop in time for me to make a brief visit to the ladies room and even get a quick drink of juice.

Walking back into the sanctuary as the pews began to fill I noticed a woman lighting a candle, pausing momentarily to remember someone. Though I wanted to do the same without any specific intention in mind, I decided not to intrude on her prayer so I went on to my place.

Sitting in the choir I am surrounded by a musical family. We all sing our parts and though some of us do not always hit the right notes, our hearts are in the right place. We sing in unison; we sing in harmonies. We sing together to lead the rest of the congregation into the worship of God.

At some point in the service as the guest pastor was illustrating the gospel of Mark and telling us to listen to Jesus, I felt this overwhelming presence near me, around me, over me, within me. It was not of my own doing as I try not to draw attention to myself, especially when I am sitting in front of the entire church. I was grateful that the communion table had been lifted up to the higher step to serve as a wall of partition just in case I were to become emotional. It was more than a feeling, however, or even an emotional moment. It was exactly where God knew I would be, waiting for inspiration, hoping for a word from him. It was time for our divine appointment.

And just like that, this rush of words came at me saying, "Why is it so hard for you to trust me?"

After all of these years, I thought this was the sort of thing he was going to finally explain to me and not the other way around!

My mind went into overdrive as I contemplated to what the Creator of the Universe could possibly be referring? But I knew. Before him were laid bare: my thoughts, my concerns, my worries, my issues. Countless sleepless nights have been the norm as of late. Unclear focus has kept me from finding healing through the expression of my thoughts in words.Trapped in a purgatory of unfinished sentences, incomplete ideas and random emotional outbursts, I had not been fully aware of how much could be attributed to physical phenomena, what part has been an emotional burden for me to bear and where the Spirit of God fits in. Waiting, I had hoped the numbness that was eventually creeping in would not come to redefine my spiritual path.  

I have seen the provision of the Lord so many times in so many miraculous ways I have no right to question. But I do. My oldest son is in his final year of college and will graduate debt-free because he was accepted into a program that has provided for his financial need. My middle son is rejoicing as he is being accepted as a musician and a runner at the beginning of his college education, also receiving a generous amount of aid to pay his bills. And my youngest son, who has been on my heart a lot lately, went forward to light his own candle today while my husband sat in the pew, tired yet happy in his new job--a position offered to him on the very day that his current position was suddenly in transition.

With my family in good shape, my mind wandered to the condition of my church family. Can I trust God with them? The guest pastor said, "The way you love your neighbor is the way you love God. The way you love God is the way you love your neighbor." Are we as a congregation loving each other well? How can anyone say he loves God whom he does not see when he does not love his brother who is standing right beside him? I've read this in the Bible long enough to know God is not calling us to do something impossible. He is asking us to love him so he can teach us how to love each other. We can love because of the love he puts in our hearts. We can only come up with so much on our own. The truest, purest love originates from him. It is for us to wait and to pray that he can find room in our hearts to contain the kind of love this world needs. He loves through us, loving us in the process.

Becoming an elder has enlarged my heart and has made me more capable to love. I am not the same person. And yet there it is--my ability to trust--being called into question . . . again. And for good reason.

I always thought it was hard for me to trust because of the disappointments in life. When people who are supposed to be trustworthy are not, trusting is a hard lesson to hold onto. But sitting there in my choir loft chair surrounded by the people of God, I knew without a doubt that whatever happens next has no bearing on whether or not I am to trust God. Trusting God stands alone, apart from me.

But what about how I want certain things to turn out? Decisions going the way I want them to? People rising to a standard I want them at? What about what I want? Oh.

This is not blind faith. It is a well-informed decision to listen to a Messiah who has my best interests in mind. And regardless of whether I have some really great ideas about how to run things, I AM NOT IN CHARGE. To try to take what God has not given--namely his authority--is to run the risk of being on the outside looking in. It is to strive for peace but never achieve any. It is to be constantly considering the possibilities instead of letting go of the outcome. It takes away the peace because the constant search of the understanding gets in the way.

Breathing deeply and trying to wipe away the tears quickly so no one would see, I finished out the service by singing very appropriately, "We shall go out with joy and be led forth with peace." I felt like I wanted to embrace everyone and love even the most unlovable. I wanted to greet the members of this church family God has given me, holding them close to my heart. I want to trust that God knows what he is doing.

country roads, take me home

On the second day of the fourteen-hour journey northward, we cross into the county where I am from. Exiting off the highway, I search for the familiar. The only constant is change. Not remembering exactly what the landscape used to look like, I knew it had been different from what we passed on the road. Trees are bigger or missing altogether. Houses are in new places; some of the old ones are abandoned. Coming up to the corner I always expect to see the old church, even though I know it was moved to the historic district in town many years ago.

The stretch of land etched indelibly in my mind is what comes into view after rounding the final turn. Fields that have produced different crops over the years roll up against the base of the big hill. What once served as a place for little girls to slide down on their sleds in the winter is covered with trees--the tree I used to sit in, among them.

The barn, milking parlor and silos rest silently in the cool breeze after decades of use. A cooling pad for tanks of cherries is a reminder of the busy days of summer when trucks would bring the newly shaken cherries back from the orchard to soak in cold water before rushing them off to the processing plant. The best cherries I would ever eat were at the end of the drive-way where all I had to do was scoop some into a bowl to make a pie.

Old buildings that once housed families who came to help with the harvest have been torn down. A larger storage building replaced one of them while the other exists only in the step-by-step pictures taken to document the time I painted a flag on the door for a school project. A corn field takes over the place where the garden was once planted, and the rest of the yard is grass with trees that are bigger than I remembered.

The embroidered picture of the farm that I made still hangs on the living room wall; the picture of my sister and I playing a piano duet in the stairway. The door to my room is closed and though I know it has become the laundry room I want to open it to find my twin bed up against one wall with my sister's against the other, our green bedspreads neatly made and floral curtains on the windows; the shelves filled with our treasures. The trunk that contained my letters and journals is the only piece of furniture that went with me out into the world.

Taking the back way up to see my sister is like following an ancient map using landmarks as road signs. Turn at the house where so-and-so used to live and continue on the paved road even though the dirt road provides a more direct route.  Go past the tavern that is further out in the middle of nowhere and keep heading north. Each small town heralds travelers in its own special way as we catch a glimpse of how life is lived there. I keep reminding myself that as beautiful as all of the flowers are, most of these places are thrust into a deep freeze for many months each year and though they may host visitors in the summer, in the winter they become ghost towns for the locals who are used to the hardship of prolonged cold.

Reunions with relatives and friends require the energy to tell life events quickly and convincingly enough so that questions do not persist. To account for decades of life is an onerous task. I can barely comprehend that so much time has passed. It is my story and I can tell it any way I want, and yet words seem inadequate when I look into the eyes of some I have not seen since we were children. Though we can be recognized by our resemblance to our parents, we retain the image we once had in high school--an image long replaced by who we became in college, graduate school and the life that kept moving us on at a brisk clip toward middle age.

The memories others have of us are thrown up against our own. In the midst of all of the sorting, I wonder exactly who I used to be and who I have become. Leaving home was something I always dreamed of doing even though it must have been a shock for those who found out after the fact that I actually got into that car after college and headed out West. Most probably did not know that I even came East to attend graduate school since I ended up in the same place after graduation where my original dream had taken me. Getting married and having our first child far from my home made these events more myth than reality since the local community was unable to participate. Moving to the South, having a couple more kids and buying a house reinforced the truth that I was never coming back to the place where I am from, except to visit. I still grieve this loss at times, but cannot be fooled like an out-of-town tourist thinking this place is warm and filled with sunshine like it was during the days of our vacation, because I know better. It is very cold in the winter and the sun may not come out for weeks at a time. Having moved away, I know of other places that are less cold and dark. There remains, however, a part of me who longs to sit a while longer on that beach with the fine white sand between my toes as the sun sets over the calm blue water.  

Like so many celebrations, the class reunion was over before it began, leaving me feeling like I was a passenger on a bus with the doors opening too soon, forcing me out at the wrong stop. Walking back through the memories, I try to find something secure to hold onto. This time travel is messing with my mind. We light the lanterns to honor the dead trying not to think of who will make it to the next reunion and who may not. We have conversations with those we never spoke to in high school since our social groups did not intersect back then. Band geeks did not associate with football players even though we provided a half-time show at every game. Cheerleaders had no business talking with introverted nerds who expressed themselves more effectively in writing than by public displays of enthusiasm. We were all given a role to play and did not stray much from the script.

None of this matters any longer. Some classmates left town; some stayed and built a life. We all grew older. Some got married; some got divorced, and some never married at all. We have become parents and grandparents. We have found work and ways to contribute to our community. We all made choices. Some choices were made for us. In spite of all of our differences, we once shared a zip code and now share memories of growing up in and near a very small town by a great lake.

As the remaining few of us sat around a bonfire laughing at the running jokes that got funnier as the contents of the bottles lessened, along with our inhibitions, we looked at each other in the shadows remembering youth a while longer. And though we tried to sing along to a variety of different songs, there was only one song we all knew: "Country roads, take me home to the place I belong, Western Michigan, mountain momma, take me home, country roads." Even though we changed the words, I am pretty sure John Denver would not have minded.

I hear you

Sometimes I wonder what life would be like if we would all take the time to listen to each other. I am not referring to what often passes for listening: the person talking trying to keep up with the listener who keeps on walking; the interrupted conversation that begins while watching television, and pauses for the commercial break so that it can continue; or the dreaded phone conversation in which each person is doing everything from checking email to using the bathroom.

We listen when it matters to us. I was recently introduced as a preschool teacher to a business woman who had no interest in anything I said . . . until I told her that I really was a writer, and then she could not stop talking to me. Though she works in a career that helps her to provide adequately for her family, she secretly longs to write. We were able to dispense with the mindless chatter of small talk and engage in a real conversation once she heard me say who I really am.

We listen out of politeness. The fixed, compassionate-like look; the continued silence at intervals when a response would be more appropriate, but is not forthcoming because the person has fallen mentally asleep; the sudden attempt at closure possibly before anything of note has even been discussed--all indicate one thing: communication is not happening.

My endocrinologist is pleasant enough and yet when I share with him my symptoms and he looks at the numbers on the lab report, he only hears the science speaking and not my voice. How poorly I am reacting to a new compounded medication I have been prescribed does not seem to carry the same importance as the recorded levels of thyroid stimulating hormone detected in my blood. The result is normal; therefore I am fine. In theory.

When I ask my husband if he is listening and he says that he hears me, I know for certain that he is not listening. I may employ old journalistic techniques of re-asking the same question in different ways, but until he repeats back to me pretty much what I have wanted to express to him, I may as well be talking to a wall. And even after all of that, misunderstandings are common.

I have witnessed others not communicating much better. The potential for ideas being understood falls flat on the proverbial pavement and people who had the chance to get along with each other instead make decisions not to, based on faulty information. In the meanwhile, we all get our exercise jumping to conclusions. But what if we took a couple more minutes to take a deep breath and intentionally listen to what the heart of another is speaking?

Finding a way to communicate requires more than words. It is an act of giving of ourselves that is time-consuming and sometimes impractical. It is dancing a dance that does not step on toes, and pausing long enough to consider a way of thinking that is not one's own. Though we may be speaking the same language, the voice of our hearts is as individual as we are.

We cannot assume to know what another is thinking. Appearances are deceiving, especially when we learn how to hide what we really want to say for fear of saying the wrong thing. But giving it another go may be just what is needed for the long awaited understanding. Perhaps we are closer to communicating than we think.

If we would just take the time to listen.

3 a.m.

As I become aware that I am in my bed and not on one of the adventures where my dreams often take me, I roll over squinting to read the lit numbers of my digital clock on my bedside table. It is 3 a.m. Again. This is happening more frequently than I would like to admit.

Lately, 3 a.m. is when an internal alarm goes off inside of me and I am transported from a perfectly peaceful night of sleep to an awakened state, as though I am late for an appointment and need to get up. I sometimes wonder if I have awakened to my own screaming, which sometimes does happen. If I ask my husband about it later, he does not ever seem to remember, and yet if I get up for any reason whatsoever he seems to wake up and wonder what is going on. So I choose to lie here, trying to focus on something in the darkness with my nearsighted eyes.

Not being able to see, I decide to entertain myself by contemplating why I may be awake. This question prompts an overflow of thoughts to come pouring out. And it isn't just one simple question after another, but an entire dialogue involving each subject.

"What should I wear to my class reunion?" turns into this: Ok, it is going to be a long night at a park. Jeans seem too casual; a party dress too dressy. A sundress may be cute, but which one? I wish I could have lost that 20 pounds I had intended to lose by now. It is going to be in Michigan which is much colder than North Carolina. I may have to wear a coat. Which shoes will I wear? Will sandals work or should I think about my boots? Maybe it will rain, which it does there quite frequently. Cold and rainy, do I really want to wear a dress? And yet, I haven't seen some of these people since graduation day. What will they expect me to look like? Have they noticed my pictures on Facebook? Do they think I look fat? I have had three kids, but I should exercise more. I have no excuses. I can't blame everything on my under active thyroid. And yet, it is the main reason I am overweight. I wonder how I will measure up. Well, I am in my 50s. Who is going to blame me for gaining a few pounds over all of these years? And on . . . and on . . . and on . . . .

I gently nudge my snoring husband to get him to roll over, and decide to check the clock. It reads 4:30 and I am beginning to wonder if I should give up the hope of sleeping and go read something. Knowing it will probably wake him and cause him to wonder if I am sick, I continue to lie here, trying not to think of how tired I will be in the morning. It is already morning. I try not to think of that either. More questions present themselves. Checklists form: grocery lists, college supply lists, imaginary calendars with to-do lists dance before me mockingly. I should not be this stressed. It is summer. I should be well-rested. I try not to focus on how disappointed I am that I am not getting the rest I need.

With nothing to do, I decide to pray. There is a never-ending list of need: a friend who grieves the loss of a loved one; a friend who grieves the loss of her friend while preparing to do her funeral; and a friend who seeks God for guidance in his calling, all come to mind. I think of my son who is at the beach with his girlfriend's family. I think about the future of my son who will graduate from college next spring. I think about what it will be like to have only our youngest son at home with us soon. I am grateful my husband is happy in his work. I wonder which direction my work will take me, as I head off on another series of questions and tangents; my very own rabbit trails leading me on.

I have read that 3 a.m. is when the "veil" between this world and the spirit world is thinnest and the spiritual realm is closest. Spiritual activity, whatever one defines that as, is at its height. This somehow comforts me. Maybe I am meant to be awake. Perhaps it is part of my calling and responsibility to awaken so that I can engage with God, interceding for all those I love.

I have also read that sleep deprivation can result in something that resembles temporary insanity which explains a lot about those early years of motherhood. Our oldest son did not sleep through the night until he was two years old. I felt like I needed psychological counseling. Maybe what I needed was a good night of sleep.

The clock now reads 5:11 and I am starting to count on my fingers how many hours of sleep I had before my middle-of-the-night interlude. Three and a half hours? Is that all? I know the time to wake up is approaching at breakneck speed. My husband will need to get the day started soon. I wonder if I'm going to feel this exhausted all day. I try not to panic since that will not help me get back to sleep. I try to stop the questions, the prayers, the random thoughts. I need to clear my mind of everything but the beautiful tranquility of slumber, like the waves rhythmically coming in, one . . . after . . . another.

Next thing I know it is 6:45. My husband has already been drinking coffee for at least half an hour and it is time for me to begin. I keep telling myself that with the very next cup I will feel revived, reinvigorated, ready to start the day. Three or four cups of coffee later, I consider making another pot.