It occurred to me just the other morning that our house is divided. And I think that's gotta cost me.
You see, three of the members of our family do not settle particularly quickly into bed at night. Their pillows are more a necessary end than a passionate pursuit. Rather, they have this inner energy that crescendos during the later hours, enabling all sorts of industrious activity. After night, however, when the light of morning creeps around the window curtain or the alarm clock sends forth its urgent call, these three are, at best, listless. In fact, greeting them in the morning can be downright dangerous. They would fall into the "night people" category.
Of course, that leaves three others. These three do not have a glorious final energy surge at the end of the day. In fact, their brains and bodies tend to go into some form of shutdown as the sun sets. They tend to snuggle into bed with the joy of a reunion with a long-lost friend. Sleep is sweet release from the exhaustion of the day and is eagerly embraced, readily received. Morning finds them refreshed and enthusiastic about the day's opportunities. They wake with clear mind and great hope. They would fall into the "morning people" category.
I fall into the second group. My other two happy morning friends happen to be two boys from Ethiopia. Two extroverted boys from Ethiopia. Two extroverted boys from Ethiopia who have developed incredible English vocabularies...and love to use them...PRETTY MUCH CONSTANTLY.
I love them dearly, of course, but, having lived for quite a few years with a bunch of night people, this introverted mom had grown accustomed to savoring quiet early mornings with a cup of tea, a Bible or another great book, some yoga stretches, or a bit of efficient task accomplishment while other household members slumber in oblivion. Now, not only do I have two companions for my morning activities, but they want to talk to me--a lot. This is disturbing. It should not be this way, says the introverted, quiet morning lover.
Yet it is.
So, I am committing to a new motherly sacrifice. It's two-fold, really. First, I recognize that I must be willing to give up some sleep (or at least be more disciplined in an early bedtime) in order to facilitate desired quietness and solitude. Second, I realize that I must love my boys by joyfully engaging them in the mornings, turning those times from my special times into our special times.
Maybe I needed to recognize our dividedness in this matter in order for us to come together in a new way. And maybe I need to count this cost in order to receive a tremendous gift.