Night is heavy. Somehow my body knows it’s too early, in the same way it knows I’m not going to fall easily back to sleep. My mind meanders and, as much as I’d prefer not to think about that thing, it lingers there. A tear forms.
I cover it in prayer and lift those others with needs, but the dark is distracting and I struggle to focus. The words of the familiar prayer God’s only begotten prayed form in my mind. I paraphrase, making it my own.
But my monkey mind still swings and I remember a little book that’s brought me much comfort through the years. Thomas à Kempis has been gone from this world for centuries but, in The Imitation of Christ, the old language drops like pearls from silver thread and minister to me.
The wisdom, meaningful still when the world looks much different from when he penned those thoughts. I wonder if he was writing to himself, or another, or maybe across time to me.
I don’t read long. There’s no need. Words have done the work they’re intended.
Prayer takes a different form and in the holy hush of night I worship. A sweet presence blankets. My concerns lift. It is well.