A confession:

I don't sleep much.

Once my head hits the pillow, I'm out like a light. I know someone who jokes that it takes me twelve seconds to fall asleep anywhere. That's true of me all the time, but especially true right now.

Though I have no trouble falling asleep, the issue is this: I rise really early, and I don't go to bed early enough to get more than about four hours of sleep a night.

I know, I know.

Somewhere my mother is aggravated with me for this.

It's been fine for a while, but it's starting to catch up with me. As I fall asleep during prayer. As my body sinks toward sleep while I drive. As I cannot sit for any length of time without experiencing a deep need to put my head down and take a long nap for the next several days.

My body is coping, but it is beginning to revolt.

I can feel the drowsiness all around me.

It's starting to seep into my life, too.

The sunrises are beautiful this April, the dawns on my drive to work simple and stunning -- and I feel helpless to do anything but simply look. The brightness burns my tired eyes.

I am becoming too weary to practice -- I nap instead. In the long run, naps are really better for my voice. But I'm not writing, either -- it's been at least a month since I wrote anything.

My life is concentrated on my two jobs, on my workouts, on a couple of people -- and that's it.

Now that auditions are over, I'm not living in an artistic space.

And that's vaguely disturbing to me, more and more so as the days creep along. I can see myself becoming a zombie.

But really, it's convenient right now to not create.

If I'm exhausted, I can turn to activities that allow me to go on autopilot: my jobs, both of which involve repetitive actions (answering phones, typing, scanning groceries, etc.). It is harder to sink myself into an activity that requires me to use my brain. Singing, writing.

But here's the deal:

Those are the things that give me life.

They are what God uses to make me whole.

Photo by George Cole.

Photo by George Cole.

Yes, I feel like I'm walking along in a haze.

And in this Eastertide season, I hear my Father in Heaven whispering to me, Wake up.

I'm living in the light of Easter morning, walking around as if I was trying to numb the pain of -- of something.

I keep hearing these words in my mind:

Wake up, O sleeper,
And rise from the dead,
And Christ will shine on you.

I keep hearing the invitation of Jesus to abundant life -- it's Easter, and look at me: all my dreams have come, are coming true.

I'm going to graduate school.

I'm doing the things.

And during a time and space devoted to abundance and victory and even play -- here I am, unable to move. It's like I'm swimming in molasses.

I do not know the solution.

I feel guilty that I am this way. Even when I beg for help, I feel guilty that I am not living the way I want to live.

Haven't I written about Adventure? And now I don't even know if I feel the longing anymore.

I haven't written in some time because, truth be told, I'm asking myself, What if my desire for Adventure is dead?

I don't think I believe it's true. But it's a sobering thought.

And I feel guilty because I'm not who I want to be.

But this morning, as I was putting on my mascara, I heard the Holy Spirit whisper to me, You don't have to feel guilty.


You don't have to feel guilty.

When you ask Me for help, you don't have to feel guilty to need help.

It's a simple recognition of my weakness.

To be weak is to be human.

And as much as my own inability repulses me sometimes (though I don't know if I would readily admit that), I would much rather be a human person with vulnerability and tenderness and weakness than otherwise.


I do not have to feel guilty?

And if I have been driven my whole life by guilt?

If I have been motivated by my not-enoughness?

You do not tell me that I am enough to do it on my own -- but You do tell me that I don't have to try so hard.

And on days I don't think I can get through work, through the length of days, You remind me of the abundance of Your You-ness that I possess.

My beloved is mine,
And I am His.

You belong to me, and all of me belongs to You, and Your You-ness, Your Self is with me and fills me and is the everything that I cannot be.

And you don't make me work harder. You don't make me try to be more than what I am.

But somehow, some way, You transform the ashes between my fingertips into gold flake and fairy dust.

Lead into gold.

Somehow You make my helplessness and weakness and drowsiness into something more than all of that.

It's the upside-down alchemy of God.

And I don't have to try so hard.

Ordinary into Adventure.

And isn't that the whole story?