Last night–er–yesterday morning (whatever)–I went to bed at seven-thirty. The sun had been up for over an hour. I woke up at three in the afternoon, the latest I’ve slept in a week. It felt glorious. Having absolutely nothing on my agenda, I spent today reading. I even took a nap. Currently it’s two in the morning, and I’m still tired. But I’m committed to writing, so I’ll be awake for a while. I know that a lot of people wear exhaustion like a badge of honor, so I’d like to be clear–I’m not trying to put myself on a cross or anything. I’m just stating facts.

This evening my sister came to visit with her two sons (my nephews). The older one, Christopher, is seven and almost always bouncing off the walls. Tonight was no exception. As soon as he popped out of my sister’s car, he ran and gave my mom a huge hug, then sprinted to my dad and hung from his neck like a piece of jewelry. And then he (FINALLY) saw me, and as I scooped him up in the air he said, “I’m as tall as the house!” While all this went on, the younger boy, Ander, hung back and quietly observed. He’s three now, and he’s only recently gotten to the point where strangers–and by strangers I mean me–don’t make him cry. (What can I say? It’s a gift.)

Here’s a picture of Christopher with the Star Wars Lego set my mom gave him tonight. He said it was “the best gift EVER,” and immediately started to put it together. You’ll notice he’s wearing a t-shirt that says “limitless,” which I assume refers to his energy levels. He reminds me of that pink bunny with the drum, the one that keeps going and going. You should see what happens when my dad gives him candy.

I guess your perspective changes with age. Since Ander was born, I’ve been someone he’s been “not so sure” about. But tonight, he must have seen me differently, since we played ball together for the longest time, and he was giggling and laughing. He even let me pick him up. Mom had given him a little book that played Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star, and Dad suggested I take Ander outside to look at the sky. So that’s what I did, and even though it was still light out, there were a couple bright spots up there. I’m guessing at least one of them was a planet, but like a toddler (or I) can tell the difference. Either way, I pointed at the stars/planets, and Ander tilted his head up in wonder.

Christopher’s perspective, in his words, is currently, “Everyone in this house is OLD.” And whereas I remember thinking about my parents and grandparents like that at his age, the older I get, the older “old” gets. I mean, it’s DEFINITELY not thirty-six, even though it is probably time to stop saying “totes,” “on the serious,” and “fo sheezy.”

Believe it or not, the boys eventually wound down and went to bed. (There may have been Benadryl involved.) So for a while it was just us adults, and my sister and I had a conversation about my sleep schedule. She said (in my own words), “I get that some people are night owls, but you’ve taken that concept to a whole new level. Couldn’t you write earlier, go to bed earlier?”

Well, this is a conversation I’ve had more than once in the last few months, about how my days and nights have been flipped around, how there are some days when I only see the sun shining for a few hours. Honestly, it’s not the easiest way to live, especially on days when morning doctor appointments are made. I mean, let’s face it–the world runs mostly on daylight. That being said, I can’t tell you how much I’ve come to love staying up late. This afternoon while I was reading, there was so much noise–the television was on, the dog was barking, and my parents were up using the ice machine, running the microwave, and sneezing (I mean, it is their house). Plus, the phone was ringing, and cars were going up and down the street.

So much noise. So many distractions.

But now, at three in the morning, it’s blissfully quiet. The air conditioner is running, a fan blows from a room down the hall, and every so often a mouse patters across the living room carpet. (I try not to think about the mouse.) But otherwise, it’s just me, the sound of my breath, the gentle clacking of the keyboard. I can actually hear myself think. Plus, almost every night something shows up on the page out of nowhere–it’s like I’m taking instant dictation from the divine–and I’m starting to think having solitude and quiet makes it easier for that happen. It’s like God comes out at night because he doesn’t like distractions anymore than I do.

I’ve heard that it’s a universal experience for people to wake up at three or four in the morning, which is why some people call it the witching hour. But I’ve also heard that that is the time when the world is most quiet, that between three and four in the morning is the best time to meditate because that’s when God speaks the loudest. Of course, when most of us wake up in the middle of the night, we just go back to sleep. That’s what I’ve always done. But now that I’m a night owl, I’ve gotten in the habit or going for a jog around one, two, even three in the morning. It’s cooler then, and I don’t have to worry about developing skin cancer or getting hit by a car. Almost always when I start out, I don’t know what I’ll be writing about later, but without fail, before I get to the tennis courts half a mile from the house, an idea has presented itself–out of nowhere. Just like that, God has spoken.

Hearing from God, I think, is worth not sleeping for.

Earlier this week I made an off-handed joke about staying up so late to my therapist during the first part of our session. Later she said, “Don’t judge yourself for that, by the way.” So tonight I’ve been thinking about the internal pressure I put on myself to “be like everyone else,” to get up with the sun rather than the moon. But under the moon, at night, I’ve grown so much more than I ever have during the day. The night, after all, is responsible for this blog. It’s the time when I’ve fallen in love with writing again, and–more importantly–fallen in love with myself again. It’s when my perspective has changed for the better. And whereas the day has only one star shining in the sky, the night has thousands, each one older than even anyone in this house, each one a limitless mystery that has something to teach us–if only we could get quiet enough, see the night through the eyes of a child, and listen with wonder to all God has to say.