Sssnnnzzz.

Ministerial Meandering

Sssnnnzzz

In the military, it has always been a good idea to grab whatever sleep you can, wherever you can, as you never know when you are likely to have another chance.  Same goes for feeding and evacuating - make the most of all opportunities.

Of late, however, I seem to be needing to grab a ‘power nap’ at almost any time of day - but I am not rising with the extra power that the aforesaid should provide.  Rather, I rise with the grace and energy of an abandoned windmill, whose sails have long since turned with any grace or energy at all.

This has come as a bit of a surprise to me, as my daughter (the medical one) perhaps noticing her creaking father, has prescribed for me some potion that should have me bouncing off the walls like some demented energizer bunny, easily cramming a week’s work into a matter of hours, and needing so little sleep that my crazed and bloodshot eyes are the envy of the community.  So far - my darling daughter - it hasn’t happened, and my crazed and bloodshot eyes are best closed - lest they tempt those who see them to hail the nearest cop cruiser.

‘Sleep - that knits up the ravelled sleeve of care’ as the Bard has said, or referred  to ‘the foster-nurse of nature is repose’ in a positive mien - is nevertheless a thief of time, if we are not careful.  How, then, to find that balance - especially as we age, and the comfort of a friendly pillow, plus proximity of a warm dog, all conspire to seduce us, siren-like, into the arms of Morpheus.

When I was studying for the ministry - and attempting to function as a competent military surgeon at the same time - I was rising at an absurdly early hour to fit in three hours of study before my morning ward rounds.  I was a much younger man then, but still in my 40’s.  Even so, I remember well confessing to my training minister - a lovely South African man of whom I am very fond - that, on occasion, when doing my early morning study, I would find myself face down in my books - and that the clock had moved relentlessly onward.  I would shake myself awake in shame, and try speed-reading to make up the time I had lost.  Ted (for that was his name) was then - and remains - a patient and compassionate man, and told me gently that sleep could be a ‘form of prayer.’  I think I gained my theological and ministerial qualification with quite a significant percentage attributable to that particular ‘form of prayer.’

Now I don’t have that excuse, and so wonder if and when the energizer bunny will take over the creaking old mill, and set the sails a-spinning smoothly and gracefully once more.  That might be a sight to see!

Watch out, Agassiz!  Sssnnnzzz.

Philip+