Despite the fact that I am most often not a morning person, nighttime does not suite me well. Ironically, this is the time in my day when my defenses are down, when Satan comes to play and weave tales of nonsense in my mind that I inevitably fall for. O the lies I have believed at night! He is crafty and I will be the first one to say of Eve: I do not curse her for her failing, I sympathize, for the lies of the Enemy are clever and strike right at a woman's heart.
I often write of my recurring insomnia, and now is no different for it is intimately woven into the fabric of my struggles. The insomnia itself is only a symptom of deeper stirrings, the fact that I cannot (or will not) let go the things of the day...or week, or month or year. While the sun is out I lay each thing in a shallow, hastily dug grave and move on, whether out of necessity or simple habit I do not know. Yet when the sun leaves me, when there are no more shadows cast but those of Fear, I pick up my shovel and screen, dig up each emotional scar and sift through it.
Occasionally I will fall asleep, only to be woken in the wee hours of day, before there is light, when only the birds are awake, peeping in the trees. Though my body is still, there is a battle raging in my mind. I will not lie, most times I lose the battle, sometimes I fear I lose a little sanity as well. For amongst all this is the thought, "surely other people do not torture themselves this way?" This drives me to prayer; that which obviously should have been my first impulse. I wonder as I talk to the only Listener if those others whom we follow after, Abraham, Paul, perhaps Christ himself felt this way. If there were not nights where tears flowed freely and the words that ran off their lips were "Abba! I cannot do this anymore!" Does it make me less of a believer to admit this to you? Does it weaken my faith, will you look at me differently for revealing this? I am not allowed to shout out that I am not perfect, unfinished, still broken in many ways, a work in progress? Can you captain a ship with sails made of lace?
One needs to look no further than the man after God's own heart, David. I picture him, huddled alone in his cave of Adullum, salt and water on his cheeks, heart torn open and I have my answers. Could there be words more fitting of sorrow than those of the Poet-King? Could Jesus plea in the garden speak any deeper to my soul? Father, if there is ANY other way...please. Yet, not my will but yours. Indeed, there were nights like mine, mind unable to stop churning, stomach in knots and eyes swimming; the soul crying out to the Lord. And I suppose that that outcry, that petition, is the answer. I can almost hear Abba say to me, "No, you cannot do it anymore...why did you ever try? I have been waiting all along to carry this burden FOR you; all you must do is relinquish your hold and weep into my breast. Do not be ashamed of your weakness, only in that weakness can I show you my strength."
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