Tonight, for instance, I'm reliving Sunday morning's worship service. The liturgy at our new church is finally growing familiar -- familiar enough to rehearse it. It's becoming part of me, and I don't have to work so hard to follow along. The words and tunes flow from my heart as well as my voice, from memory, at last.
There are no contemporary choruses and very few familiar hymns. Collectively we recite prayers that I haven't prayed in church for years, confessions of sin, confessions of faith, creeds, and the Lord's Prayer. At least four sections of scripture are read, and communion is celebrated each and every week. This weekly communing with God, alongside fellow believers, is good for my soul, just like the balm of Gilead, soothing, healing, refreshing.
But reviewing it, recalling and reveling in it, is not at all...sleep inducing.
Quietly, in soft, cozy pajamas, slippered feet, and big fuzzy robe I trekked downstairs to make a cup of cocoa. On my way to the kitchen, before the light was turned on, I could see outside. Three big dark shapes against the white bright snow, deer frolicking on the front lawn. A beautiful sight in the moonlight. Worth the inconvenience of insomnia, seeing creatures of the night enjoying their wakeful time. Perfectly natural for them, not so natural for me. I sip hot cocoa and watch them until a yawn sneaks up on me. This is a good time to return to my snugly warm bed and be grateful for it. So very glad to crawl between flannel sheets and not to be bedding down in snow.