The first version of this post had some comic errors introduced between when I had read it last this morning and when I hit publish about 15 minutes later. It was pretty obvious a child did it, and I suppose it some ways it was a bit of a case-in-point. I need childcare. Haha
It’s been over two years since I’ve slept well at night. Almost three if you count how hard sleep was for most of the twin’s pregnancy. Each night, I am called out of sleep by tiny people needing comfort. And each night I rise from my bed to give it to them. It is the unseen labor that I remind myself, is building a foundation of connection for a lifetime.
But it’s not easy. A couple weeks ago, I found myself at the most beautiful wedding, unable to dance the night away the way I’d wanted to, because I was holding a sleeping two year old who I knew would be extremely cranky if she woke up and found that I was no longer the one holding her. It was the crankiness I wouldn’t risk, though there were so many others who offered to hold her. And I was exhausted anyways. I couldn’t stop the tears from flowing where I sat at the edge of the dance floor and watched our happy family dance the night away.
Then this past week I returned from my trip for that wedding to realize, once again, that I cannot make my life work the way it is right now. I do not have the resources to accomplish the work that is currently on my plate. I need minutes that I can focus without being afraid that one of the twins is doing something very bad just outside my line of sight. I need more support. I texted a friend for an emergency moral-support porch date, and when she asked me what was up I said:
“If I was just sleeping at night, then I wouldn’t need help! I could just get up early and get my work done without asking anyone for anything.”
And I heard the words as they came out—the anger in them. The frustration. Not only that I don’t have the resources in my own self to run my life the way I need to, but the very fact that still I am not sleeping well and still this is a gift that God could give me isn’t it—so that I can do this work that I know he is calling me to do? So why hasn’t he?
It almost seems like a no-brainer until you hear the other edge to my words—until you realize that my self-sufficiency patterns haven’t quite been burned away yet.
There are a lot of things that I’ve learned about rest in the past almost three years of not sleeping well. So many things about me have been burned in the fire of sleep deprivation. When I look back on who I was before all this, sometimes I wonder if I would have recognized myself. I have been brought lower than I thought possible. I have stared into a dark night of the soul so black I thought it might have been endless. I have learned the gift of prayer in the midnight hours. I have learned to give thanks for a little, and to be content. I have been humbled by the fact that I don’t even know what it would look like for my brain and body to operate at full strength right now: it’s been so many years of lack. I am an embarrassing conversationalist often because my memory is terrible.
But still, somehow, I think I should be able to run my life by myself, and I’m angry that I can’t. I’m angry that I need to ask for help (and keep asking.) I’m angry that I have to get to a place where I acknowledge my need in front of others, and then am still without the resources to accomplish what I need to accomplish.
That’s why September’s paid Substack will be coming to you in early October (thank you for your patience Paid Subscribers.) Because I didn’t have any minutes to sit down and write to you about all this until now—a halfway decent night, (only one 3:30am wake up) with a coffee maker set to brew at 5am. Here I am on my doublewide rocking chair in my front sitting room, typing my heart away because I am half a person until I get the words out. Imperfect as they may be.
The other morning, I also had a few moments to myself (a rarity these days) but I plopped down with my Bible, my journal and a pen, and at the subtle question in my heart I heard the Lord prompting me towards Psalm 25. The subtitle of this passage in my Bible is “Dependence on the LORD,” and I remembered that God does hear my prayers. Even the ones I huff out in angst.
“Make your ways known to me, LORD;
teach me your paths.
Guide me in your truth and teach me,
for you are the God of my salvation;
I wait for you all day long.
Remember, LORD, your compassion
and your faithful love,
for they have existed from antiquity.
Do not remember the sins of my youth
or my acts of rebellion;
in keeping with your faithful love,
remember me
because of your goodness, LORD.”
—Psalm 25:4-7
I wish I could say that this will be it for me. I’ve acknowledged that I prefer to be self-sufficient, and now I will turn from my ways and lean in peaceful dependence on the Lord. But we all know that would be a lie.
Of all the things that have been lost in the fire of sleep deprivation, that particular trait seems to be locked in some sort of leaden box. Maybe opening up here, is part of how I will be set free. The truth is, I need your help Dear Reader.
Even before AI started making all the writers scared that human art is on the cusp of vanishing in favor of machine-written and borderline-plagiarized content, the writing life was not a well paying gig for most of us. The majority of writers I talk to would just be happy if the work paid for itself. The investment of time and emotional energy it takes is perhaps more costly than you might initially imagine, though it’s considered a bit taboo to tell readers about that part But it’s the human thing to do, and it costs the robots nothing, so here I am telling you how important and helpful it is to a writer (not just me!) when you decide to support our work financially. I’m so grateful that Substack provides a seamless and accessible way to do that with Paid Subscriptions.
When you decide to become a Paid Subscriber, you are helping in a very tangible way—and it’s a help that I need.
As much as I’d love to say I can write without resources, it is very, very hard to get much or any focused time in with two two-year-olds, cute as they may be. I don’t need a lot, but I do need a little time to get these words on the page. I need time to get my edits done for my poetry manuscript. (Did I mention that somehow my six hours of work on my edits somehow got deleted off my laptop this past month? I had almost finished with the manuscript and now I have to completely start over. *cue the tears*)
When you become a Paid Subscriber, you help to finance resources that allow me to get my work done. Whether that’s occasionally hiring someone to watch the twins for a few hours so I can put pen to paper, or helping to fund the various costs involved in publication—I couldn’t do it without you.
As the Sparrow Flies, my debut collection of poetry, is scheduled to release February 20th, 2024—and I am so grateful for the many readers who have already financially contributed to this work by Subscribing. You have helped me to pay my artist, Bethanie Pack, for her invaluable contribution to the project. You will help me fund the high quality paper I need to make her work shine in the book. And you will help me to create the space and time I need to finish and launch the book in a way that I hope will bless all my readers.
Your prayers and encouragement are also invaluable to me. Every time you share my work and what it meant to you, every offer to pray (especially for sleep!)—these things are just as deeply appreciated and necessary for me and for my work to continue in a sustainable and joyful way.
It’s all well and good to talk about the importance of rest, and the necessity of Sabbath for relinquishing that horrible compulsion towards try-harder self-sufficiency. It’s quite another to choose to put the laptop down in favor of taking a nap, when I know those 45 minutes might be the only time I have any hope of getting some writing done. To choose not to work on Sundays even when it feels like my only opportunity to do so with the support of my six-day-work-week spouse home.
Practicing rest when life is intense is a true test of trust and surrender. And right now, I’m trying to imagine a life in which God’s provision for me and for this work that he has called me to do, is more connected and interdependent than it ever has been before. I am a high-capacity do-er—and even after all these years I’m still trying to learn how to ask for help. I still have to start over. I still have to realize my self-sufficiency comes out a pride and a desire to never need anything from anyone else. Perhaps in part because I’ve been burned in the past. Perhaps because it’s a form of self-protection to never need anything from anyone else.
Maybe you have felt the same. If so, I hope these thoughts encourage you. I’m sure you’ve had parts of yourself burned away in the fire of exhaustion, and then there are parts of you that you still struggle to let go of after all this time. This post is both a confession, and a surrendering. Maybe God wants to empower my readers to help support my work financially and this post is how he will do it? Maybe he just wants you to know that you aren’t alone when you continue to struggle with the same things over and over. Either way, I am grateful you are here Dear Reader. Thank you for bearing with these weary words. I hope, wherever you are in life right now, they meet you somehow.
Life is hard to figure out. But you are not alone.
I read the first version and honestly thought they may have been left on purpose, but felt it so much. I could see the momentary head turn, the sticky hand slapping the keyboard and then picking up the sentence where you left off. Will be praying for more rest. (P.S. the song “Half Here” from Lowland Hum’s new album is giving me so much solace right now - just feel so seen in the half-there exhaustion of this season. The last line “I want to do more than half - live…” is so real. That fragmented, scattered guilt is so hard.
Oh Grace, I have read this while shaking my head with sadness, but when I got to the part about the editing deletion, I gasped. Oh how I wish that I lived close and could sit with you and yours. I will offer my prayers and try to be more consistent. Truly, I am so sorry for the aches you continue to endure. I don’t have flippant platitudes to throw out. Just, I’m sorry. Don’t give up on your Sabbath. You and yours are of need. You are loved. Susan