You sit down heavy, the weight of the missing hours pressing on your brow. The clock has become an enemy, its hands marching through the small hours while your eyes refuse to close, and then the morning sun finds you buried under a sleep that came too late and stayed too long. You did not choose this. You do not love this tangle of weariness and wakefulness, the frustration of lying down when the birds begin to sing, the shame of rising when the day is half-spent. It feels like a thief has stolen something precious, and you are left with the hollow ache of a body out of step with the world.
But let me take your hand a moment and lift your eyes away from the clock. Sleep itself is not your enemy. It is one of God's tenderest mercies, the quiet physician that knits up the raveled sleeve of care, the gift He scatters alike upon the laboring man and the weary mother and the troubled soul. You know well enough how sweet it is when it comes, how it bathes the aching limbs and stills the fretful brain. Do not despise the sleep that does come, even when it comes at an awkward hour. The very fact that your body finally yields is a kindness from the hand that made you.
But you are telling me of a deeper trouble. It is not sleep you dislike, but the disorder of it, the late retiring, the late rising, the sense that you have eaten the bread of sorrow by treading a path that leads nowhere good. You have lain down with a weary head and a throbbing brain, and you have waked to a day already half gone, and the whole business has left you hollow. I know that weariness. I know the way a soul can sit up late, turning over its own thoughts as if they were ponderous volumes, seeking some remedy, some peace, and finding only a deeper unrest. It is vain, beloved, vain to rise up early and sit up late in this fashion, eating the bread of anxious toil. The Lord does not measure His love by the hours you keep. He is not standing with a stern face and a rod because your rest is disordered.
And yet, oh, and yet, there is a tenderness in the way He trains us for the skies. Perhaps this very trouble is not a mark of His displeasure but a form of His instruction. The restless nights that plague you may be the Shepherd's crook, gently pulling a wandering sheep back toward the fold. Your body and your spirit are telling you something: you were not made for this uneasy pattern. You were made for a rhythm of evening song and morning song, of lovingkindness shown forth in the sunlight and faithfulness sung in the watches of the night. When that rhythm breaks, you feel it in your bones, and the feeling itself is a grace. It is the Father's hand in the dark, bidding you seek a better way.
Do not harden yourself with resolutions that taste of the rod. Do not resolve to beat your body into submission by sheer force of will, as if godliness were a matter of early rising and self-discipline alone. No, lean rather upon the breast of your Beloved. It is He who gives His beloved sleep, not only the sleep of the body, but the deep rest of a soul that has ceased from its own strivings and trusted itself to Him. Your waking and your sleeping are alike in His care. When you lie down, whether at ten or at three, you may commit yourself to Him who neither slumbers nor sleeps over you. And when the morning breaks, even if it finds you heavy and ashamed, His mercies are new. They do not depend upon your deserving.
One little word more. You know what it is to wake in the morning and feel the day is already ruined, the hours squandered, the opportunity gone. The temptation then is to hide from the light, to cover your face and sink back into a heavier slumber. But hear me: it is high time to awake out of sleep, yes, but that waking is not a harsh alarm bell. It is the voice of Love calling you to cast off the garments of night and put on the Lord Jesus Christ. Even at noon, the armor of light fits. Even when the sun is already high, you may begin again, washed and clothed in Him. Do not let the shame of a late waking keep you from the One who bids you come at any hour. Feed upon that kindness which is new every morning, however late the morning finds you.
Let us pray.
Lord Jesus, You hold the keys of the night and the day, and You give sleep to Your beloved. Look upon this weary one, tangled in hours that bring no rest and waking that brings sorrow. Quiet the restless heart, still the anxious brain, and give, in Your own good time, the sweet gift of ordered rest. Teach them to cease from vain strivings and to find in You the deep sleep of the soul. When the morning comes, meet them with mercy, and let no shame keep them from Your side. We trust You for every hour, waking and sleeping, now and always. Amen.