I am awake at 4:30 this morning. Maybe I'm still stoked about the Vols beating Florida, which makes my little orange soul happy. Maybe I have indigestion from an evening of rich food. Maybe I am worried about why I keep hearing a cricket outside my bedroom window...yeah, that little rascal is annoying. He moves around, wily creature that he is, and I can't seem to find him. If I could, he would be one dead cricket...
i am an early riser, but I long to be a late one. I would love to be able to roll over in bed and sleep until 9 or 10 o'clock, blissfully unaware of crickets or football. Then, I'd roll out of bed, rested and happy. Instead, I wake up disgustingly early, bags under my eyes, hair in disarray, looking (and feeling, I might add) like The Walking Dead.
But it's here in this quiet time before dawn that I can say things to God that can only be whispered during the dead of night or the early hours of the morning. Things that are in my heart or on my mind...important things, that try to weigh me down or pull me under. It is in this quiet time that intimacy comes. It is in this time of turmoil that peace abounds. It is in this time of sleepless anxiety that hope arises. I do not take these things for granted. They are precious things that can only be had through struggle. And being without sleep is truly a struggle. For me, at least.
The good news is that it's Sunday. And I was raised in the fine southern tradition of Sunday naps. This afternoon, Lord willing and the creek don't rise, as my Grandmother used to say, I will recline on my couch, curl up with my stuffed frog (don't judge) and snooze away. At least I can make that plan. And I can't hear that cricket from my living room...