"I have heard you calling in the night"

A decade ago, Andover Newton Theological School advertised with a question, something like, "Is God keeping you up at night?

I didn't sleep well last night. It may be that at the end of vacation, like the last hour of a silent retreat, my mind finally frees the things to which I have been holding on, the things that my vacation really needed to "vacate." Anyway, it seems as if that last hour before leaving the retreat house is the time where I finally figure what the retreat has really been about.

And so I slept on and off last night, an hour at a time. Too much watermelon too late last night, perhaps, requiring too many trips to the bathroom.

But my mind was also full of ideas from yesterday's reading of The New Yorker (Aug 20), David Owen's article on dark skies. I realized how light my house is in the middle of the night, that even my bedroom is filled with light reflecting through my blinds from my neighbor's back porch light. My own halogen "safety" light turns on automatically when the sun goes down, and stays on until sunup. Another neighbor's back yard light spews light every which way in a half dozen back yards.

I was more aware of my night/sleeping conditions when I lived on Boylston Street in Boston. The house was seldom dark--the light levels of Copley Square (out front) and the service alley (out back) left the apartment full of gentle light and many shadows all night long. I remember how I responded to sounds in the apartment--skateboarders who would skate the fountain until 2 and 3 in the morning, and then garbage trucks that would empty dumpsters between 5 and 6. I developed a pattern of sleeping in the back bedroom until my 4 o'clock pee, and then move to the front bedroom until daybreak.

When I got a roommate for the back bedroom, that pattern had to change. I slept only in "my" bedroom--the small one out front--and learned to tolerate the sounds of the street, park, fountain and skateboarders. But part of the new conditions was that I painted my bedroom a deep blue-black, almost like a Waterman fountain pen's ink. I got light concealing drapes to block out the streetlights and spotlights. And I began to sleep through the night.

Last night, every hour or so, I'd make my home a little darker. Turned off the safety light outside. Drew the shades in the sun room. Pulled the shades lower, past the air conditioner, in my bedroom window, and closed the drapes tight. Finally realized that the darkest room, perhaps, is the living room. Curled up on the couch for a little nap before rising for some quiet time.

I turned on the television (bad habit) and found the Mass for Shut Ins. This was the first televised Mass I've seen in Michigan, and it was very interesting to me. I used to watch the daily Mass from time to time in Boston, and this Detroit program had higher performance values, in my opinion. Better integration of the group who participated, more professional readers, a pretty fine homily by a priest with a great singing voice. And the camera work was more tightly focused with tighter transitions. Satisfying.

The theme of prophets coming not to unite but to divide, not to maintain but--like a fire--to transform was compelling. The notion that prophets get in trouble--thrown into wells, crucified--quickened my heart, and made me want to call friends and do something real in this city. But it was the anthem that seemed to bring everything--my night/morning and the Mass--together.

"Here I am, Lord. Is it I, Lord? I have heard you calling in the night. I will go, Lord, where you lead me. I will hold your people in my heart."

This song was a favorite of folk when I was in seminary, and it was a farewell song for my mentor Rev. Raymond H. Bradley (Jr.) when he retired from the ministry at the Riverside (RI) Church. (Tommy Gleadow and Othneil Clark and I sang it in a dueling tenors version that had us singing tight and high harmonies on the chorus that blew the roof off of that little New Engloand church!)

So as it was sung this morning, I looked backward, of course, and forward (on Thursday I host the Flint Area Congregations Together steering committee). But I also looked within, within. And that, I think, is what vacations are really about, for me. A chance to stop and breather and think and weep, and consider the worth that is deep, deep within.

Rained last night, gently. A little chilly this morning. Sun is hidden, if risen. Day beckons.

Good morning.