I’m awake in the middle of the night and my mind wants to race, as minds tend to do in those dark sleep-hungry hours. Once I wrestled, stealing glances at my bedside clock and worrying about how tired I would be at work in the morning. We don’t keep a clock in the bedroom anymore, and the work I do is my own. Nighttime wakefulness is a gift when it comes.

My mind attempts sprints, I allow it for a time. Then I fall into the sweet place of prayer and contemplation, and Love speaks. I’d stay awake all night every night if it meant I could listen to that still, small voice until dawn’s breaking.

Now it is morning and the pink pre-dawn sky has turned pale blue. The sun’s rays rest gentle on my duvet and birdsong welcomes the day. I’m sipping soy milky frothy coffee and thinking about what Love spoke to me in the night. Simple, but we complicate it so.


I’m a writer, reader, and creative. I thought by now I’d have things figured out, but I keep coming up with more questions. I think that’s okay. I’m here most mornings pondering ordinary things and the thin places where faith intersects.

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