Peaceful moment of the day: Waking up slowly, with a cramp in my leg, and realizing I had been think-dreaming since my head hit the pillow. I stood up to fix the crampage, and was startled to see a huge window at the head of my bed with moonglow pouring onto the bedspread — where was I? The pattern on the bedspread, a busy clock, and the carpety smell of the room reminded me that I was in Grandma’s house and I shook happily and flumped into bed again. No more think-dreaming. Eight hours of sleep were never so savored as these.
The past two weeks have been lived nocturnally, in addition to normal day-time appearances. Classes and work by day, and homework and Facebook (shame, shame) by night. Sleep, I hardly knew ya. Monday night, I slept three hours from 5 – 8 am, drank strong coffee that made the roof of my mouth pulsate, and stayed up until 2 am Tuesday, compiling a report on areal photosynthetic yield’s dependence on intercrop distances for bio, and the-en, slept a few hours before charging off to a semifailed trig quiz. (The equations in trig are looking more and more like a “Where’s Waldo?” picture as the term progresses. Angle Theta does not wear a red-and-white striped sweater, though, and it’s most inconvenient.) Each twenty-four hour day is full, and so quiet moments are relished slowly, yet with an eye on the time.
Almost a year ago, life was similar, but perhaps more intense. Accompanying the chamber choir, tutoring micro, taking fifteen credits of relatively involved classes, while working seventeen hours a week, and by night, taking care of Grandma during a scary illness– I’d rather repeat the experience, yet it was incredibly valuable. She had such a good attitude through that horrible two-month spell– apologetic when she summoned at night, needing me to call 9-1-1. The peace covering her was impressive. Though she struggled to breathe, fought for strength to stand, could hardly keep food in and could hardly keep pain (back, shoulders, arms, legs, feet, stomach, head, what?) at bay, she always seemed concerned that I had enough to eat, enough sleep. I hid my sleep habits to keep worries away, and stayed up at her computer until three, four, or five o’clock in the morning, writing speeches that were to be spoken five hours later.
That time was difficult. In reflection, it’s taught me much, but primarily this: when Christ says “My peace I give you…” He means it with every ounce of sincerity. Waking from a short night’s sleep, I remember being upset at the start of another long day. My lungs and diaphragm hurt (a lack of sleep phenom?) and Grandma was having a challenging morning. “My peace I give to you; I do not give as the world gives” (John 14:27). The words wafted to mind like a deep and gentle sigh. It’s true. Not as the world gives. Not as I can comprehend. He works in wonderful ways. Grandma has reveled in the peaceful mystery for years, and tears up when I remind her of the time we both experienced it.
When I woke today at half-past nine, the cloudlight trickling through the blinds, finches arguing for birdfeeder time outside the window, that familiar carpety smell, and a human voice (mature alto timbre) greeting the morning had to remind me, yet again, that I was not in Corvallis, I was not almost late to chemistry lecture, and I did not have to be in a hurry. Homework and finals skulked in the background, but this moment was for savoring. Walker wheels skidded across linoleum, and whisps of “Madame Butterfly” flew into the room. Breathe deep. Time stands still when there’s maple toast on the table.
