It’s been called The Devil’s Hour, 3 a.m., supposedly a mocking inversion of the hour Jesus died: 3 p.m. I have my doubts: would that be 3 a.m. Jerusalem time, which would be 8 p.m. my time? 8 p.m. doesn’t carry the mystique for devil-doings like 3 a.m. What I do know is that I occasionally wake up in the middle of the night, often around 3 a.m.
It’s likely happened to you, too. And when it happens with some regularity, you may think, “Am I turning into an insomniac? Am I becoming one of those people who show up at 3:30 a.m. in the grocery store with disheveled hair, wearing pajama pants? Will I be the only one at the car wash at 4? Will I have cleaned and tidied my house by 5?
I, for one have resigned myself to the nightlife. Perhaps this open admission will allow me to sleep. So, I’m self-identifying as an insomniac, ready to check “Insomniac” on my new driver’s license and insurance cards. We insomniacs are part of a vast subculture, a virtual underworld of disconnected nocturnals, creeping zombie-like through the darkened rooms of our silent homes in the night’s wee little hours.
I’m sure there are insomniac support groups somewhere. But, honestly, who wants to talk to others at that time? “Can’t fall to sleep? Let’s try talking ourselves through it, bore each other to sleep with meaningless drivel.” Oh no, not for me. I have zero tolerance for people like me at 3 a.m.
I’ve tried remedies: warm milk, sleepy time tea, Benadryl, and recently, 3 a.m. melatonin. That’s the name of it: 3 a.m. melatonin. It has a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde effect on me. My wife has banned the 3 a.m melatonin, claiming it turns me into the world’s greatest curmudgeon.
Some people (primarily those who produce and sell the elixir) recommend the benefits of strong drink to put a body to sleep. But liquor’s dangers far exceed 3 a.m. melatonin. Propofol is even worse and, fortunately unavailable for most of us commoners.
When you awake at 3 a.m., the battle lines are drawn: try and relax, and you’re doomed to tossing and turning. Ignore it, and it looms larger, like an inflatable dinosaur that grows and grows until it’s taken all the space in your bedroom. Walking through the house will only energize you. Try brewing coffee, and you risk the aroma awakening the normal sleepers in your home.
It’s a burden we nocturnals bear. Like last Sunday morning, for instance, I stepped outside at 3:30, fearful that grinding my coffee beans would awaken Lori and the Schnauzers. So, I roamed around until I found the electrical outlet on the back porch. The high-pitched whirring sound of my coffee grinder must not have awakened anyone, for I didn’t see any neighbor’s lights flashing. I thought I did detect a coyote crying, but they like the nightlife, anyway.
An hour before I had taken on the role of a solitary barista, I had awakened and had begun analyzing my sermon for that day: was it theologically sound, hermeneutically correct, homiletically effective, all code for “does it make sense, and will it fly?” But before that, what plagued my hazy, muddled mind was, “Why did my football team play so lousy last night?” That’s what woke me: a bunch of kids having had a bad day on the gridiron.
These bouts with insomnia can have benefits. Sometimes, at 3 a.m., I think of my friends at the Cistercian monastery, only a few miles from my house. There they are, up at 3 a.m., chanting the Psalms, like the servants in Psalm 34:1: “Behold, bless the Lord, all servants of the Lord/Who serve by night in the house of the Lord!”
And, turning the corner on my return home, Psalm 63:6 sometimes comes to mind: “I meditate on You in the night watches.”
Some mornings I just sit or walk: no Scriptures emerge, only my soul opening to the night’s mysteries.
So maybe I’m not a true, born again, baptized in a pool of sleepless nights insomniac, after all. The nightlife can be an invitation to draw closer, and when closer means a deeper God-awareness, it’s even a gift.