I rolled over and tried to back to sleep.
But I was awake.
The lament of the previous day louder in my head. Grief for the church. Grief for the world. A merry-go-round of ideas of tiny things I could do. Wondering if I should do any of them.
I prayed.
I tried to let it go. But sleep would not come.
Eventually Zander meandered into the room. I welcomed the snuggle.
Morning came much before I was ready. And it was a dash. Last minute items to pack. Jump in the car. Hop on the bus. Ride to the airport. Flu across the country. Eat dinner. Tour cherry trees and monuments. Walking with a full belly in the evening breeze. Sleep finally starts to come for me. My back feeling the strain of a day like today. Ibuprofen on the way to the hotel. Write my blog before we arrive so bed can find me.
Jesus spent his last living day like this. Busy with a holiday. Running around and then the quiet of the night, the heaviness of the road ahead. No sleep found him. Arrested at the end of an all-nighter. Tried. Abused. Made to carry his cross. Exhausted. Nailed. Sleep did not find him. The pain was too much.
I will be grateful for a soft bed in a quiet room. But sometimes... God speaks when sleep doesn't find us. Being up at night with our hearts is sometimes a sacred liturgy. May we be open to hear God's voice even if it finds us in the middle of the night.
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