The body wrestles with sleep while it lies still, and the mind races while it should rest. This is a strange paradox, is it not? The flesh craves repose, yet the soul's anxieties drive slumber away, as the Scripture says, "The anxieties of wealth drive away sleep." You are not the only one who finds that the season of rest becomes a time of trouble. That unease in your stomach, waking you, is often the body speaking what the soul refuses to quiet. When the heart is not stifled within by the cares of this world, it soon recovers itself and is immediately wakeful in a good and collected sense. Yet for you, the waking is not to prayer, but to nervosity, a term that speaks of a soul entangled.
Consider first what provision you are making for the flesh. You ask for good, sweet sleep with no waking, and this is a natural desire. God, knowing our toil-worn race, has woven sleep into the necessities of nature, doing good to us even against our wills, as a haven of our ills. I do not forbid taking care of the body. We are even commanded to "use a little wine for thy stomach's sake and thine often infirmities," so seeking health by moderate means is good. But where is the boundary? Is your eating, your walking, your exercising done for health, or has it crossed into a provision for the flesh to fulfil its lusts? Do you live a life so soft and relaxed that you kindle not health but fretfulness? For to go beyond necessities, to live in a constant round of anxious self-attention, is to light up a flame in the furnace of the body. It is no longer making provision; it is storing up fuel for the nerves you wish to calm. You do everything, perhaps, not that you may be healthy, but that you may escape every discomfort, and this very pursuit breeds a tyranny more powerful than natural rest.
The deeper roots of the unease are not in the stomach, but in the soul. What thoughts govern your days? For some lie awake to pitiable purpose, plotting deceits, anxiously thinking about money, raking up the smouldering embers of wrath, reckoning up abusive words spoken during the day. Do you do likewise? Do you make enemies of your own peace? If any one, where you did sleep and eat, had buried a dead body, what would you not have done? Yet, if your mind is a tomb of past injuries, worldly cares, or vain desires, you are burying a dead soul in the members of Christ, and how can you wonder that sleep flees? The rich man, though he has gained the world, is bound like a dog with ten thousand chains. Night becomes a time of anguish. A noise, and he jumps up. Has his neighbor suffered loss? He, who has lost nothing, cares more for it than the one who was plundered. Is this not a picture of the nervosity you carry? You fear losing what you have not truly lost, and that fear stirs the stomach more than any food.
The path to the sleep you seek is not found in more fixings of the habits, but in a genuine casting off of care. Our Lord once came to disciples who were utterly without sense of His presence, so drowned in despondency they could not even watch one hour. And what did He say? He did not smite them again, lest He crush the already smitten. At times He bids us see that the present life itself is a sleep, and the things in it no different from dreams. The one who sees this can say with the Psalmist, "He that keepeth Israel shall neither slumber nor sleep," and then, "Do not suffer thy foot to be moved." The suffering depends on ourselves. Do you want to stand steadfast and unmoveable? Then do not suffer your foot to be moved by every fleeting thought. The holy ones among us lie down in sleep as decently as those who are awake, for their great fear of God does not permit their minds to drown, and the sleep that falls lightly upon them brings rest, not wild fancies and monstrous visions.
Prune away, then, the things that exceed necessity. Spend your industry on the care of spiritual things, and you will be able to rouse yourself from this sleep of anxiety without being weighed down by manifold desires. Let the thought of God be your guard against the racket within. For why did the keeper of the prison, when an earthquake shook his foundations and loosed his bonds, fall down trembling and ask, "What must I do to be saved?" Because in his moment of personal deliverance from death, he saw the power of the One he had persecuted. The nervosity that unlocks your rest is a tremor of the soul, a sign that you rely on your own crumbling walls. Let it drive you to ask the same question, not of a man, but of God. For He allows our foundations to shake that we might finally lay hold of the unshakeable kingdom.
When you lie down, do not make provision for the lust of perfect comfort, but offer your waking moments as the Psalmist did. Commend your rest to the One who keeps Israel. Know this above all: that death itself, which we so fear, was called by our Lord but a "sleep." "The maid is not dead, but sleepeth." He said this to teach us not to fear that final slumber. If He has trampled down death and made it a sleep for the departed, can He not make a sweet sleep for a tired body? But He often delays His outward peace, standing apart a little, to show us our weakness and make us cry out for Him. The God of love and peace will be with you when you, having done all to stand, in gentleness and the harmlessness of the dove, entrust even your stomach and your nighttime hours to His care, seeking first His kingdom. Then, the night which was once a tyrant becomes His gift, a gentle breeze upon a parched soul.