insomnia

Each week I have one night that I can not quiet my thoughts enough to sleep. Last night was that night.

To cure myself of these endless hours I have been reading Louis L'amour--much against my sensibilities. Honoring my husband's prayers for me, however, I put all the mindless books aside and again started reading books on theology. Problem is, they don't put me all the way to sleep, they just make me sleepy enough my brain no longer engages. I remain awake.

Following the guidelines to cope with insomnia, I got up to do something. Earlier in the afternoon I had picked up an old, but free, changing table that coordinated almost to the point of matching the crib. The nursery went through one more rearrangement.

The changing table made the room feel almost complete. One addition to the closet, and all that remains to complete the room are decorations, a layette, diaper supplies and linens. These things add character to a room, but the furniture make it take shape.

With the nursery nearly complete, my house is truly beginning to feel like home. Lying in bed I began to fill in the details. Finally, I got up. I heard Mark get out of the shower and prepare for an emergency before looking for me. He found me in the nursery admiring my handiwork. Tucked conveniently and cozily between the bed and tiny dresser was a box of childrens books. On the other side was the home made green nursery rhyme box on which I had placed Anna Bear Lee to hide the mess of cords behind the dresser. "Before putting Baby to bed, we can snuggle on the bed and read a book. Afterward, we walk two steps and tuck Baby into the crib. Two more steps, put the book away, and everyone is happy." He just smiled, assured me I wasn't crazy to be nesting at that late hour, and led me back to bed. Since Baby won't be sleeping in the crib at night until he is six months old, I was planning a year ahead of myself.

Back in bed, Mark was reading his own thoughtful book and tried to engage me in conversation. Unfortunately, he started to put me to sleep--not intentionally. He let me drift off after I shared, "I wish I had believed in nothing before I became a Christian."

"It would have been easier," he agreed. Grace, depravity of man, God's sovereignty--I believe all of it. Even now, four years later, something in me wants to fight that belief that we are so separate from our God. So I wish I had no idea, no concept of relationship with God before becoming a Christian. Until now, I have joyfully ignored the problem, but now, I must let transformation occur so I can weep next Easter.

Four hours after going to bed, I went to sleep.

Married Life

How is married life? They like to ask that question. I am puzzled, then my face melts into a faraway expresion, and I reply that it is wonderful. It is the only soundbite that I have. Afterall, they understand--don't they?

I am no poet, so help me here: How do you encapsulate the thrill and quiet of your first few months of marriage?

It is the building of projects together, of eating dinner together on the back porch, of the time-consuming house work, of enjoying the sunsets from the sunroom, of waltzing in the living room with meaningful looks to the song "Small Home", of cooking together, and at the end of the evening, neither one of us has to drive anywhere. There is someone to thwart the orderliness of the house, force me to put my feet up when I am gung-ho, to laugh at my clumsiness, frighten me further after watching a scary movie--before holding me tightly in his arms. Married life is a rose--it has its thorns. But he is also there in the middle of the night when I wake from a nightmare or get too cold.

It is the absolute delight of coming home to him. My heart sings and twitters the whole twenty minutes of my commute. I can't wait.

If he is working, then I have about an hour to tidy the house and start dinner to welcome him home. He can't smell, but coming home to dinner on the stove is always a welcoming sight. Greeted by a cheerful wife, the gleeful dog, Roxanne, a clean home, and cold Guiness, a smile beams from his face. I always get a lovely hug.

Winter came back this April, but before that, when the days were long and seventy degrees mid-day, we worked a lot outside. My upbringing convinced me that home, among other things, meant home improvement projects. Since I was four-years-old, my parents and I were always working on something. If we weren't, it meant it was to move. Mark and I bought a house with lots of improvement projects. Each one brings us closer together and makes the house feel more and more like home.

Mondays were difficult. He has the day off, and I would have to go to work. All day I would want to be at home, throwing the ball for Roxanne, tending to my roses, and loving my husband.

If you have soundbite for all of this, it would be appreciated.