On Insomnia

On Insomnia

(“I lie down, sleep, and wake up because the Lord helps me.” Psalm 3:5)

 

There was a time that sleep eluded me. Head on the pillow late
at night and there were locust raises buzzing through my head.
I tried to quiet them, prayed the Name, confessed my bowlful
of sinning, and hoped that was enough to unwind my untidy mind.
Or, nights when I fell asleep nicely, I might wake with a start when
the occupants of my dreams made sure to embarrass me. They
would call me out in front of everyone; they would mock me for
being less tidy than them. Early on it was my parents, the ones
I thought had raised me like love. But I constantly dreamed I had
done something entirely unforgiveable. I locked myself in my room
of that dream and woke up crying.
Sometimes I dreamed I was to lead worship at a large function,
using my keyboard, the instrument that draws forth praise from
my fingers. Five minutes before it was to start, I realized I have
zero music, and the singers have none either. I streak to my office
and look through the files. But they are no longer in alphabetical order
and my face is red with embarrassment. I grab what I can and the
singing is flat and lackluster. I had that dream more time than I
like to recite.

Anxiety haunted me. The hissing in my head never went away.
I carried it during the day with hunched shoulders and hope that
no one thought I was home, or in the office. Men were ready to
argue the least likely doctrines they had read from the latest writer
who claimed he knew it all. There were a handful of kind men,
but they had no power. No one ever asked them to be on the
board of directors or become an elder. Sometimes I think
people gaged them as weak in the faith. Some even tried
to force me to admit sins I never committed (although I had
sinned so much more).

It is no wonder that sleep eluded me. But then I took a huge
step back and outward. I retired and no longer stand in front of
people to try to convince them what God has said. Well, a couple
of times a year to small gatherings of people who know me.

It is the relief of the ages that sleep is now my therapy. I no
longer expect to be woken in the night and driven to the couch
to kneel with my face in the cushions acting like a first-class penitent.
Last night I slept from 11 until 8. My daily headache still ate through
my silent barriers. But I walk, I take an hour, and I see children who say
hi to me first;
I see dogs who want to meet me and lick my face.
I see a family of deer deciding if there is enough to eat in this
new small development. I see a friend drive by who smiles
and waves at me. My bucket is slowly filling for the day
and that leads me to whisper praying and quiet reading.

And I slide into bed, my wife beside me, our dog
between us, and fall asleep with no anxiety leftover
from the days when it felt for sure that my head had been
vised and then told it was all my fault. I repented fairly well,
not enough for some people, but that is for another day.
I just know the nights no longer frighten me, and the mornings
greet me with moments of contemplation. I can say I awake
because the Lord helps me.

Barely Awake

 

Barely Awake

(“Then Jesus said to him, ‘Put your sword back into its place; for all who take the sword will perish by the sword.’” Matthew 26:52)

 

In our dreams we move faster than light,
and barely awake we sludge so slowly we dare not move
from right to maybe so. What miracles of fear
and cold sweat escort you 500 miles and 30 years ago
waking cements our ego within its four walls?

And so we draw swords because evil men are demonic,
though we’ve never seen a devil bleed before.
And so we label them Jezebel and Satanic, cast our unholy spells
we call prayers
while love looks on, divesting us of its name.

Did you see the sweat like blood,
did you hear the cry of perfect love,
did you consider the cup he drank,
did you consider staying awake?

Those with heavy eyes wield the swords,
those with light in their soul heal the slain.

The most profound product of this world

Is

Tears.

Never in Shadow

Never in Shadow

“For as the lightning comes from the east and shines as far as the west, so will be the coming of the Son of Man.” Matthew 24:7)

Never in the shadows, never shrouded by raucous trombones;
He will not arrive in secret this time, nor hidden beneath the
world’s auto-phonic songs.

The silence will be smashed, the humming shattered by the
blast that disrupts each foolish pursuit; begun, newly ended
 or in-between. The Son of Man will not wait for each
bank account to be depleted and each investment,
replete with final bell percentages. The Master
returns on His own terms, without searching the
critics’ reviews.

Ready; He has published His arrival this time.
Prepared; He will not knock faintly.
Look up; He will flash, will thunder.
Awake; the sleeping will be startled,

The observant, with faces shining like the silver mirror,
the silky river reflecting the sun, will not know

Whether to stand and cheer,
fall and weep,
kneel and pray their name is inscribed
(reason and faith, the cross and grace are the
preface to the Book the Lamb authored of life).

In the twinkling of an eye all history will flash,
an orb embracing an orb; and time will meet
head to tail…when the Son of Man

Wipes the dark-storm wonder from the panorama
of human falter and the Divine Again.

Wake me Mid-dream

Wake me Mid-dream

Wake me up mid-dream from the slowly building magma,
swim with me midstream or float or wade, just be the company
I keep because I’m either weary or lazy and it’s so late in time
I cannot tell.

Pull me out of quicksand sideways until I realize someone actually
has a hold on me. I have more to see than the dark-lit haze
of needful naps along the way. Take me down the highway
full of surprises before the road rises near midnight
and sets me down at listless.

Shake me up to just to remind me You are there.
Skim across the opaque pond, a rock skip into my pining.
Become the comrade I say when the late side of the day
tells all others to stay away.

Take a whiff of me like a rose, pull me out of the doldrums,
and remind me of the rhythms that play in the backyard
where the bees fly flower to flower, the pill bugs crawl into themselves,
and the mocking birds try to sound just like my dog.

There was nothing sad except I made it so, when friends were
best during day, and dreams were what we should play better the next.
Homemade kites out of newspaper pages and the man down the block
with a garage-full of railroads chugging in HO gauge.

Let my nap refresh me again, not the place I wish I was every moment
I am doing something else. Let me walk with a friend, smile leading the way,
pain the simple and occasional salute to frowns once accommodated,
now nearly outdated. Let me wake
to awaken alive like the living child who made
boats out of sticks to float down the gutter
after the summer’s first shower.