For the last several months, I have had trouble sleeping through the night. Inexplicably wide awake at 2 or 3 in the morning, I strain to hear the clock chiming in the hall. It’s a game I play with myself: if I can’t hear the clock, then time isn’t really passing and I still have a whole night to slumber. It’s a game I lose, because the clock chimes no matter how much I will it to stop. 

When I have heard the clock chime three times (it sounds every quarter hour), I know I’m really, truly awake for the duration, and I move to a room where I can be really, truly awake for the duration – but allow Mark to sleep in peace.

Other than the clock, not much makes noise that time of night. Occasionally I will hear a freight train as it rumbles past several miles away; even more occasionally I will hear a night-hunter (an owl, a coyote, or – one memorable night – a bobcat) doing what night-hunters do at night. But mostly what I hear is quiet.

It occurred to me recently that I may be waking myself up accidentally on purpose, just to listen to the quiet. Maybe I need quiet more than I need sleep right now? I don’t know… but the quiet is thirst-quenching the way a glass of water is thirst-quenching on a hot summer afternoon. It feels deeply necessary; it tastes like a reprieve.

THE LOUD LIFE

We are living through such a lot of noise. Noise pollution was a thing, of course, even before the pandemic and the throngs of always-raised voices of 2020. From sea life traumatized by sonar to toddlers traumatized by jackhammers, modernity has been inflicting high volume suffering for decades. But the pandemic and its associated turmoil somehow upped the decibel level to new intensity, ferocity, and relentlessness. The strident sounds come at us from all sides, all day – discordant and shrill and ongoing. I am reminded, frequently, that loud noise is an effective torture technique.

Perhaps our collective fatigue makes the noise sound louder than it is? Probably. I recall, as a sleep-deprived mama of new babies, jumping out of my skin at ordinary sounds like doorbells or telephones. Fatigue erodes the cushion around our nerves. (I can’t prove that physiologically, but I sure can testify to it experientially.)

But I am discovering some beautiful things in my middle-of-the-night-wakefulness. When I listen to quiet, my breathing deepens without any effort on my part. My forehead relaxes from the crinkled-up worry-pucker that has become habitual. And prayers well up from my heart. Indeed, prayers come from the depths of me like flotation devices long held underwater – shooting up, breaking the surface, sending spray flying.

I am not exactly recommending middle of the night wakefulness, but I am acknowledging the alchemy of quiet, solitude, and unstructured time. Hours spent breathing deeply, unworried, in prayer, are sacred hours whenever they occur – hours with astonishing healing power. 

A Template for Wakefulness

Jesus modelled such hours at multiple junctures during his in-person time on the planet. In the gospel of Matthew, Jesus’s response to the news of John the Baptist’s murder was “to withdraw… to a deserted place by himself.” In Luke’s gospel, Jesus routinely sought “deserted places to pray” (5:16) and spent a whole night alone in prayer prior to naming his twelve apostle-disciples (6:12 – 13). All the gospels describe Jesus’s agonized prayers in the garden of Gethsemane, the night before his crucifixion. Ponder the parallels: in times of stress, grief, discernment, and fear (sound familiar?), Jesus stayed awake, alone, and prayed.

Elijah, a fiery prophet to whom God gave victories that were numerous and public and miraculous, hit a tipping point in life when his fear so overwhelmed him that he forgot himself and God. In a fit of terror-fueled amnesia, Elijah literally headed for the hills – a headlong retreat, punctuated by petitions that he might die peacefully, immediately. God tenderly pursued him, provided sustenance for him, and then reminded him who he was by showing him whose he was:

God said, “Go out and stand on the mountain before the Lord, for the Lord is about to pass by.” Now there was a great wind, so strong that it was splitting mountains and breaking rocks in pieces before the Lord, but the Lord was not in the wind; and after the wind an earthquake, but the Lord was not in the earthquake; ¹² and after the earthquake a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire; and after the fire a sound of sheer silence. ¹³ When Elijah heard it, he wrapped his face in his mantle and went out and stood at the entrance of the cave. Then there came a voice to him that said, “What are you doing here, Elijah?”

(1 Kings 19:11 – 13)

Elijah had to hear the “sound of sheer silence” before he could hear the voice of God. And Elijah had to hear the voice of God before he could be recalled to himself, to his life of purpose and power. Elijah returned to his ministry not because the source of his fear had been removed but because the sovereignty of that fear had been toppled – God was back on the throne of Elijah’s heart.

Peace… in the meantime

We do not know when the pandemic will be truly “over”. We do not know when – or if – life will get back to “normal.” But we do know that fear is a liar which makes lunatics of us; and we do know that our Lord is the way, the Truth, the life – and the sanity and peace which we so crave right now. 

So, let us be wakeful. 

Let us avail ourselves of opportunities to listen for the “sound of sheer silence” and let the prayers burst forth. 

Let us remember that God “never slumbers or sleeps” (Psalm 121:4), so we can “lie down and sleep in peace” (Psalm 4:8) – certain of God’s protection… 

And if sleep eludes us, then let us receive the deeper rest of communion with the One whose perfect love casts out all fear (1 John 4:18).