There’s no rational explanation why sometimes I will be in a
deep, sleeping nirvana, and suddenly, bing,
my eyes pop open, at which time my body calls it quits. All done sleeping. That’s been the case the last couple of
nights. Hormones. It’s the menopausal ‘’crazy juice” coursing
through my veins and brain that often cause me to operate a tad out of bounds. I hit fifty and it’s like I’m a crack junkie
injecting the stuff from concentrate, on the edge of an overdose.
So now, the regular routine for this hormonal
woman-of-the-night at two a.m. is to head down to the living room and take up
residence on the couch, turn the television on low, and hit the station for
EWTN. I fluff up the pillow, grab a
throw blanket, and try and convince my body that it would really be
advantageous to resume some sweet repose.
I make the futile argument that three hours of sleep is not going to
provide the kind of hutzpah I will need to properly carpe’ deum.
I was lying back, eyes closed, and faking sleep when one of
the cats jumped up on me and stretched out to demonstrate how to properly
slumber. Almost like she was
bragging. One of the reasons I leave my
bed in the first place is because I don’t want to disturb my husband with all
the tossing and turning I do when I wake.
Everything is uncomfortable.
Everything itches. Clothes are
wadded where they shouldn’t be.
On arrival the furry cat padded around my torso searching
out that certain “I don’t know what” that would make her the most
comfortable. This was the crease between
my shoulder and the back of the couch, inched close enough to my face so the
fluffy hair would tickle my neck, and the incessant purring would bore into my
sleep-deprived mind like a jackhammer. The cat solidified my uncomfortable position. God forbid I shift and cause her to be
annoyed.
Then her sister arrived. Same game plan. She ended up on the
outer crease next to my hip. Between
them they pulled my blanket taut, effectively pinning my arms in a calico
straightjacket. Then sista two started her subtle growl because she doesn’t
really like sista one. Now I gotta pee.
I fought it like a trooper; closing my eyes against the
claustrophobia, because ain’t it always the way, when you suddenly can’t move,
that’s when by golly you really, really
want to. There’s a logjam of the senses,
a growing hysteria with all their contented purrs and tickling fur and it made
me think of those holy monks who endured hair shirts for the love of God. Wasn’t this the equivalent? Albeit, much more
colorful. I willed my mind toward
distant, sunny meadows where my arms were free to move, and clothes didn’t bind…
Suddenly I was reminded of the wretched souls in hell.
Every year I read bits from the writings of St. Anthony Mary
Claret entitled: “The Pains of Hell” to my eight grade catechism class. I want them to understand that although evil
is often glamorized in movies and such- hell is a horrible reality. I recalled one of his sobering descriptions
as I was lying on my couch: “A damned
person lies in hell forever in the same spot which he was assigned by divine
justice, without being able to move, as a prisoner in stocks… In this prison
the damned are packed so tightly one on the other like bricks in a kiln…”
It’s when I gravely contemplate Divine Justice that I tend
to step back and regroup.
Reprioritize. I truly see all
these little “nudges” as communications, graces from God and promptings to
pray. They seem to come in an instant, a
quick bolt of unexpected lightning and, as it was in this case, I see all the
benefit to the little sufferings surrounding me, and all the merit they possess
if I would but offer them up.
Life is short. We all
get the gist of it; but we tend to focus our attentions on what appears to be
more demanding temporal things. Our
comfort. How small really is my
discomfort? It’s in these flashes- lying
on the dark couch, the cats acting as the deadweight, beneficial ballast in
this sudden call toward holy things that I soberly contemplate my finite
attachments and the great need to work for souls. The tremendous value in our crosses!
I think it was St. John Vianney who asked an impenitent to
hold his hand over a candle, and when he refused asked him how he planned on
enduring the pains of hell for all eternity.
What do we have here in this
life, and what are we willing to pay for the Kingdom? These thoughts were still on my mind when I
awoke hours later; still having to pee.
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