Wee Hours Brilliance

My dad worked for the railroad for over 50 years. That's almost unheard of in today's "switch jobs every five years or so" world. During my growing up years, Daddy usually left the house around 5:00 a.m. and returned home around 4:00 p.m. But there were occasionally periods when his schedule would vary, and he would have to go in earlier or work later. It was always important to Daddy that he see me at some point every day, and so when his normal working routine was disrupted, he would often wake me from a deep sleep to say hello or goodbye and place a kiss on my forehead. And then there were times ... times that I will always remember ... when Daddy would sit on the edge of my little twin bed and talk to me for a while, imparting some pearl of wisdom or sharing some deep insight or new perspective he had gained that day.

I'm awake a lot now, and I often think of those times spent with Daddy during the wee hours. I've come to understand as I've grown older that those moments with Daddy were several things ... they were always spontaneous and never planned out; they were honest, true and sincere, and always from the heart; and they were filled to the brim with ideas and hopes and dreams, both Daddy's and my own. And sometimes ... sometimes they involved a trip to the kitchen for a big bowl of vanilla ice cream with chocolate syrup drizzled on top. Maybe not the best idea healthwise, but what could have been more fun than sneaking to the freezer in the middle of the night with my dad? 

I think perhaps the example set for me by Daddy of spectacular ideas in the middle of the night explains some of the great ... dare I say even brilliant? ... thoughts that come to me in the wee hours when I so often find myself awake. Such as the one that came to me last Saturday at 4:00 a.m. ... well, technically, I guess it was Sunday rather than Saturday even though it still felt like Saturday night. I woke up thinking about a dog we had several years ago named Ali, a large (and I do mean large) Dalmatian/Lab mix ... sweetest, most gentle giant of a dog ever. Ali lived to the ripe old age of 13, which in dog years is quite old for a dog of her size and breed.

Now I'm aware that some of you will disagree with me, but I've always been the type of person who allows my dogs to sleep in my bed. And Ali was no different than the little dogs I've owned over the years ... all 110 pounds of her would climb into my bed each night, stretch out, and then snore like a freight train as she slept. As Ali aged, she developed severe arthritis in her hips and eventually could no longer get up in the bed without help. Before she passed away, her physical issues and my inability to lift her caused her to spend the last year or so of her life sleeping on a giant dog pillow on the floor of my room.

When I woke last weekend thinking of Ali, I saw my big dog Julie curled up next to me sleeping peacefully. As I swung my legs to the side of my relatively tall bed, I had a thought ... an idea ... a moment of brilliance. Julie is getting older, and she doesn't need to be making the leap into and out of my rather tall bed, so I decided to take my bed off of the frame and place the box springs and mattress directly on the floor. In my foggy, sleep-deprived mind, I thought that would be a good idea for both of us ... Julie wouldn't have so far to jump and I wouldn't have so far to fall should I have a low blood sugar episode. And so at 4:00 a.m. with my bedroom lights blazing, I broke out my toolbox, wrestled my queen-size mattress and box springs off the frame, disconnected said frame from the headboard, vacuumed away the dust and crud from under the bed, and plopped the box springs and mattress on the floor. An hour later as Julie and I climbed back under the covers, I had one overriding thought as I drifted off to sleep ... this was a simply brilliant idea.

Waking on Sunday morning, however, my first thought was ... what the heck happened to my bed? Am I taller? Where did the bottom half of the bed go? And then I remembered my wee hours brilliance. As I sat on the edge of my now "low-rider" bed, I couldn't help but wonder if God had chuckled at my little early morning construction project. And I also wondered if He sometimes shakes His head in sadness at my attempts to solve problems on my own, to fix things in my life that are askew without His help, to heal my wounded heart without His touch.

I've left the bed on the floor this week, partly because the whole not so far for Jules to jump or me to fall really is a pretty good idea. But I've also left it there to remind me that God is the only One who has the answer to my problems, Who can fix me when I'm broken, Who can heal me when I'm wounded and sick. And my prayer this week? Break out your toolbox, Lord ... take away what needs to go to bring me closer to You ... clean out the dust and crud from the depths of my soul ... make me find a new way of resting in You.