On Sleeplessness 

It was an obscene hour of the night when I came across this poem. I’d been sifting through a list of things weighing on my mind and had altogether given up on falling asleep. Then, thumbing through The Valley of Vision, I discovered a page poignantly titled Sleep—so of course I had to read it. And the words struck me:

Blessed Creator,

Thou hast promised thy beloved sleep;
Give me restoring rest needful for
tomorrow’s toil;
If dreams be mine,
let them not be tinged with evil.
Let thy Spirit make my time of repose
a blessed temple of his holy presence.

May my frequent lying down make me familiar
with death,
the bed I approach remind me of the grave,
the eyes I now close picture to me their
final closing.
Keep me always ready, waiting for admittance
to thy presence.
Weaken my attachment to earthly things.
May I hold life loosely in my hand,
knowing that I receive it on condition
of its surrender;
As pain and suffering betoken transitory health,
may I not shrink from a death that introduces me
to the freshness of eternal youth.
I retire this night in full assurance of one day
awaking with thee.
All glory for this precious hope,
for the gospel of grace,
for thine unspeakable gift of Jesus,
for the fellowship of the Trinity.
Withhold not thy mercies in the night season;
thy hand never wearies,
thy power needs no repose,
thine eye never sleeps.

Help me when I helpless lie,

…

(Williams, A., & Stone, S. J. (n.d.). Valley of vision. Oxford Polytechnic.)

 

The very first line caught a groove in my heart, “Blessed Creator, thou hast promised thy beloved sleep.” This references Psalm 127:1-2 (ESV), and a verse that I wonder if many insomniacs have grappled with too:

Unless the LORD builds the house,

those who build it labor in vain.

Unless the LORD watches over the city,

the watchman stays awake in vain.

It is in vain that you rise up early

and go late to rest,

eating the bread of anxious toil;

for he gives to his beloved sleep.

 

“He gives to his beloved sleep.”

 

I remember a season in college where, for around a month, I couldn’t get more than 3 or 4 hours of sleep a night. Sometimes, the sun would rise, and I hadn’t fallen asleep yet, and I would ache thinking on that verse, that “He gives to his beloved sleep.”

Of course, throughout scripture we see God’s beloved facing many a sleepless night. We’re not promised that Christians all shall have flawless circadian rhythms. Not to mention, sleeplessness has been a profound means which God has often used to reveal his love for me. Few things have driven me to the end of myself like insomnia—making God’s grace over me, his patience, and his faithfulness all the clearer.

Rest is a promise—but I think the verse is getting at something else: that is, that the entire orientation of our lives, our work, our impact, ought to revolve around God, who builds the house, watches over the city, and gives us our daily bread. Our need for rest is a shadow of our need for him.

The restfulness or lack thereof in our lifestyle is indicative of something crucial that ought to set us apart as those who know who God is—there’s something to be said of contentment here.

There’s a difference of heart between the beloved of the Lord and those who work themselves to the bone, that “rise up early and go late to rest, eating the bread of anxious toil.” What do the Lord’s beloved have to be truly anxious about? Daily satisfaction, rest, and sleep are from the hand of God.

It makes me think that contentment just can’t be a lack of desire or disinterest in the things of this world. That’s just resignation. Or worse—apathy. What if contentment is the glow that comes with desiring most for that one thing which matters over all else? A soul-settling restlessness for heaven.

The prayer writer says, “May my frequent lying down make me familiar with death.”

He talks about sleep as if it were a rehearsal—a daily practice in relishing one’s finiteness and relinquishing one’s work and worry. A ritual of humility. In sleep, gratitude, and in longing for sleep, practice longing for God.

What a redemption for the insomniac—to think of everything you will leave behind. I’ve begun spending my occasional hours of sleeplessness sifting through all the things I will abandon at once when God calls me home—from the unfinished to-do list I left on my desk at work to the very United States Constitution. No joke. Things longed for, hoped in, labored over, loved, despised, and even things forgotten. The list is sweet and long and causes a strange overturning of discontentment. My list includes answered and unanswered prayers, all bound up in anticipation of the most sensical thing any soul could ever long for—Jesus.

I think only Christians can truly think about death not for its coldness or violence, but for its finality, with joy. A final verdict of victory and not defeat, for those who put their hope in Jesus, trusting him alone for salvation. Death has been reversed so severely that Christians can find comfort in it—one day God will call us to himself, and nothing will stop us from making a beeline to his presence. Only those who have put their hope in Christ can ever truly close their eyes in peace.

On the hill behind my Papap’s house, there’s a path that leads to a little glade in the woods. My Grandma Donna’s tombstone is settled there at the base of her favorite tree, and it reads:

“But swift, my spirit, toward thy heaven climb.”

What a prayer to pray. But swift. What a legacy to leave behind—a rock that cries out! A stone that declares to anyone who wanders by that we live and die for something neither life nor death can separate us from.

David writes,

“As for me, I shall behold your face in righteousness; 

when I awake, I shall be satisfied with your likeness” (ESV, Psalm 17:15).