fighting-sheetsShe turned off the lamp for another attempt. “I feel like I’m fighting my own brain. I gotta get some sleep.” Her wrestling match with the fresh winter sheets ended in a draw. “Time to try something else.”

Her groan punctuated the flap-flap of her slippers on the tile floor. The knife and fork clock hands marked 3am. “I’ve got a full day ahead. How am I going to function?” Her fingers dropped a tea bag into the mug before reaching over to lift the switch on the electric kettle.

Unloading the dishwasher filled the heating time.

tea-in-cupShe raised and lowered the peppermint parcel as she poured the boiling water. The sweet aroma tickled her nose. “If only I could figure out what’s going on.” Bottom settled on a stool. Wrists on the edge of the bull nose. Palms warmed by the hot drink.

The phone call was still hard to believe. All she wanted was some information and a big nasty attitude got thrown at her instead. She stayed as calm as she could, but everybody has their limits. Hmmmm. Maybe if I’d . . .

A breath to chase away the steam and a hurried sip. She sucked air in and out across her tongue as fast as she could.

Her plans for next Saturday would have to be really special. A kid only turns thirteen once. The list required to stay on task began to write itself. A baseball theme would work. Decorations would be easy to get at the Party Store. Her face twisted up at the idea of a fancy cake. And a house full of boys means . . .

cookie-snackThe swirling motion shot a few distracting drops on to the spotless counter. A cookie found its way out of the apple-shaped jar and between her teeth. Yummy gingerbread.

Her lips went into a straight line. George got home from his business trip in the morning. There wasn’t anybody else in his life who cared enough to point out the problem. He would not be happy, but it had to be said. I’ll start with the facts . . .

She drank the last drops of the now-cool liquid and stretched her toes to the floor. Tightening the sash of her robe was automatic. While she made her way back to bed her personal critique system continued to cycle.

The flannel pillow case brushed against her cheek. She whispered her plea, “Lord, what am I supposed to do, count sheep?”

Cast all your anxiety on [God] because he cares for you. 1 Peter 5:7  NIV1984

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2 Comments

  1. this hit close to home for me. i’ve spent many of nights this way. funny how the lords prayer usually ends up putting me to sleep not the sheep 🙂

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