I’m an inveterate insomniac. I often wake up in the middle of the night, around three A.M. for no apparent reason, and because I’ve had just enough sleep, I have real difficulty returning to a deep, restful sleep. So, I go through a kind of ritual, allowing myself half and hour or so for thinking, praying, and trying to get back to sleep. When that fails, I get up and read or write.
Usually this happens one or two nights a week. Tuesday mornings I have a breakfast date with the Magnolia group, a traditions these wonderful women have maintained for some twenty-five years; I’ve been part of its activities for about five. We get together at Cracker Barrel and talk about church things, the challenges of family, work, and homemaking, and pray for those who need our special brand of love at the moment. These are talented, lovely women who live their Christian life before others. They serve the church with special gifts of hospitality, and mentor each other along life’s journey.
So, Monday nights I can usually plan that I’ll wake up, as I did this morning. A secondary reason today is my birthday, and the anticipation of having the family here to help me celebrate 73 years. Thirdly, today I get to meet an author whose book we’ve read in my book group. So, eager for the new day to begin, it was predictable that I’d wake up early.
What is different this morning is that the full moon outside beckons me to the window. This week the moon is closest to the earth. The news broadcasts have been full of stories about how the tides are affected, how big the moon looks this week, and data that suggests this won’t happen again for some period of time. What I notice, however, that at this hour, the moon bathes my garden, giving me new perspective on its beauty.
The pond water reflects its shimmering beauty, outlining each water lilypad, the sparkle of the waterfall, and the vague outlined shadows of the surrounding herbs and plants. Nearby, the blooming Easter lilies reflect the light, trumpeting their stellar beauty as they gently sway in the breeze.
I’m seeing no wildlife, but I’m sure the raccoons have visited the pond and birdfeeders. How do I know? The walkway is splattered by wet footprints, recently left as evidence of their wanderings. When my pond was stocked with fish, they routinely tousled the plants, leaving piles of devastation behind. Now, they merely put their little paws in the refreshing water and splash about in reckless abandon.
The trellis trumpet vine shines back the moon’s beams. The glossy leaves sway to and fro, dancing in the breeze, reaching for new heights to climb. The magnificent chartreuse sweet potato vine provides bright contrast to the surrounding plants and bushes of darker hues. They are indistinct shapes, but the bright leavs of that plant, massively spilling out of the pot where they are planted, are focal points at night as well as during the day. I think their brightness is an analogy for the bright spots of life which help ease the ordinariness of the surroundings with plant laughter.
I know, if I could but see it, that morning dew is settling on every surface, for the way things work in Florida summers, the plants need refreshment to face the coming sting of blistering heat. And so the blanket of dew, right at this moment, is blessing each leaf with balm. I’d like to think of this as God’s laying His manna on the ground as He did for the Israelites. His provision is certain and His blessings are eternal.
And so, thank you, insomnia, for this treasured moment to view my garden with new eyes. Now I have great things to dream about until it is indeed time to begin this new day.
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