The Night

I’ve spent too long demonising the night as anathema to a good life well lived. I dejectedly glorify the early morning, from afar, as if it would solve every creative and disciplinary malaise I’ve ever faced. But the night is still. Calm. The children are asleep and most of them will be for hours ahead. The morning is always disjointed and interrupted in the loveliest of ways. But it’s not a good time to write. It’s not a good time to slink out to train. Not now. Perhaps when they’re all too old to face the morning, like I am. 

I paused in my writing, as our little four year old daughter emerged to be comforted, embraced, to ask if it was the morning, as she wanted it to be. She was comforted. Given solace. And she went back to bed. My hands returned to the keys, my mind to the task. It’s the Gethsemane principle. Watch, wait, pray, give this time to God, lest we be tempted. Tumult will come with morning, but at least, Lord, I’ve stolen a moment with you now.