Chasing Sleep

I can’t sleep.

Well, I can, and I often do, sometimes even well.

But it’s not a sure thing.

As I’ve grown older, I’ve learned I can’t take sleep for granted. It’s no longer a straightforward process of lying down, curling up under my sheets, closing my eyes, and sliding toward slumber.

I might begin the slide toward unconsciousness only to stop suddenly, like a child splaying out his limbs to slow his descent down a tube at the playground. Or I jerk to full alertness the moment my head hits the pillow, as if my body has gotten its signals crossed. Then there’s the fake-out, when I go to sleep effortlessly then awake fully in the middle of the night.

Whatever the scenario, I can be certain of one thing: my mind will see its opportunity and run with it.

Characters from my novel-in-progress will sneak onto the stage and present snatches of dialogue and twists of plot to consider. The “to do” list on my kitchen counter appears and I add items to it.

Friends and family, especially those facing challenges, materialize and I pray for them.

But if sleep still stands at a distance, the spiral begins.

Like a murder of crows, my faults—my sins—circle above me, cawing and demanding attention. The things I should have done that I failed to do. The things I did do that I shouldn’t have. The recitation covers the previous day or the previous year or the accumulation of deficits over a lifetime.

At this point I’ll arise, tiptoe out of the bedroom, and read for a while—usually the Bible or a book by Timothy Keller. Often this stills my heart enough that fatigue can win the battle.

But not always.

I’ll return to bed only to resume my tossing and turning. I recite the Lord’s Prayer and the 23rd Psalm and still the darkness closes in on me, the crows drawing nearer and more insistent.

I pray some more.

Quiet the voices in my head.

Help me.

Deliver me.

A couple of nights ago, the shrieking of the birds thrummed through my heart, and I couldn’t make it stop.

Then I heard a whisper. As insubstantial as a cirrus cloud, yet as firm as stone.

“Be still, and know that I am God.”

He is God. I am not.

I finally saw that all my ruminating and fretting consisted of nothing more or less than putting myself at the center of things. Where God should be. Where He is.

That’s not my place.

It’s His. And His alone. Only He can grant me sleep. More importantly, only He can grant me peace through the day, through the night, through eternity.

I turned to my side and fell sound asleep.