Notes on Rest, Reflections on Sleep
A guest post by Candice Gormley
What’s good everyone,
For paid subscribers I’ve recently started a Notes of Rest Fellowship Working Group, where we gather once a month to talk about our current joys and struggles with each one of the Notes of Rest. (You’re welcome to join by subscribing yourself!) This past week on Monday we discussed the note of sleep, particularly God’s invitation to be disciplined about neither sleeping too little nor too much. After our discussion, one of the members of our little community, Candice Gormley, felt the urge to write and send me a piece on our time together. I was blown away by her insights and asked to license her piece to share it with you all. I’m thankful she agreed.
May we rest well in God to stay awake for the grace that surprises.
abundantly,
Julian
My son looks at me with terror, “I can’t do it” he exhales, all in one anxious breath. I’m kneeling next to him, trying to reassure him with the same words the midwives told me when I was laboring with him: “But you are doing it, I can see it.”
I’m coaxing him to his room. His fear of the dark seems to drive his decision making, like a possession. I tuck, snuggle, pray, sing and story-tell him into a calm state in his bed. Without fail, as soon as I move toward the door, he leaps up.
He follows me around the house like a shadow; and I grit my teeth, trying to keep down the irritation bubbling up inside of me. Being a parent of older kids, I feel a sense of entitlement to my rest time. I went through three wavelengths of sleep deprivation with each of them, and it was only through my community that I could cobble enough sleep for myself. I am not prepared for that sacrifice now.
I guide him up the stairs to his room. I’ve already racked up enough bad parenting choices for the evening: emotional manipulation (why are you so scared?), punishment (no more legos tomorrow!!), materialism (what about a special nightlight...). I realize that I can’t fix this: loneliness and darkness are truly terrifying things, and we weren’t created to face them alone. Yet every night we must seek a resting place.
My son’s anxiety about the dark brings up memories of my own insomnia when I was his age. There was a destabilization in my home life; I developed a pattern of anxiety right before bed. I remember the feeling of my body tightening up, adrenaline and emotions colliding and pulsing as I laid in bed, unused potential energy demanding I get up.
The Psalmist understood this fear. Psalm 77 says “you keep my eyelids from closing; I am so troubled that I cannot speak. I commune with my heart in the night, I meditate and search my spirit.” Sleep is a gift, not something we’re necessarily entitled to. Yet sleep is also like a miniature death. It’s hard to comprehend a gift that simultaneously reminds us of our mortal weakness. It’s not hard for children: in a world where they are treated as fragile or insignificant, it’s easy for them to grasp their vulnerability.
Over-consuming sleep has led me into other struggles. When our children started sleeping through the night, my husband and I formed a habit of sleeping-in as long as we could. My body was making up for years of deprivation, and it just couldn’t be satisfied. It completely destabilized our morning routine, which became rushed and harried by our lack of discipline. I suspect that my body has overslept in other aspects of life. I have slumbered when I should have been awake in those critical moments that require wisdom, courage and love.
During the season of Pentecost, our church has prayed a corporate confession, petitioning the Holy Spirit to ‘wake us up, shake us up, heat us up and breathe new life into us’, so we don’t miss how God is moving in our community. This weekly habit reminds me that I can oversleep even when I’m awake. We are corporately tempted as a society: technology and isolation offer an invitation to rest in gentle deceptions of truth. Watchfulness is required to resist this false kind of sleep.
I need rituals to put sleep in its proper place. We can be forced into these habits by vocational calling or unjust labor and economic forces. Night shifts, gig work, and round the clock caregiving can destabilize our sleep patterns. I don’t know what external factors my kids will face in this demanding world, but I hope they will build habits of rest and use wisdom to discern when watchfulness is required.
In my youth, how did I uncover a routine for good sleep? My Dad was instrumental, though not perfect at helping me. I think he felt totally out of control with getting me to bed. But he did pull us together for a short devotional before bed, he taught me to pray the Lord’s Prayer when I felt afraid. I still pray this reflexively when I lie down. Psalm 42:8 reads ‘By day the Lord commands his steadfast love, and at night his song is with me, a prayer to the God of my life’. What songs and prayers do I want my son to carry into the night?
I am back on the steps with him. I let out a long exhale.
“Listen, I know you are afraid. I get scared in the dark too sometimes. It’s hard to remember that in this darkness, we are surrounded by the moon and stars and countless other creatures that are joyfully and wildly a part of the night. God has made them and called them good. We can ask for God’s Spirit to give us courage. He can help us in the night, because His Spirit is with us. Do you think you can try being still in your bed for ten minutes, and then I will come and check on you?” We say a short prayer, breathing in and out together:
Lord Jesus Christ, Have Mercy on me. I’m scared.
He wasn’t receptive on the first night, but by the end of the week, he could rest in bed for a few minutes. May we also find ways to sleep well and wisely, carrying His song with us into the night.
Candice Gormley is a writer and public health nutritionist, raised in the little community of Nanticoke, Pennsylvania and now based in Pittsburgh. She writes on topics of community health, caregiving, and the struggle to find resilience and joy in desecrated places.
Thank you for sharing this. It was truly good for both my mind and soul. As a mother of a 7-year-old who is still very scared of the dark, I am grateful to find peace and camaraderie in my reading today.