{Lent 2024 brings me the opportunity to devote some time each day to write. It’s my Lenten discipline, such as it is. My theme this year (if you haven’t already guessed) is room(s). Today, try to stay awake.}

I recall writing a few years ago about a Julius LaRosa song I have on one of those compilation LPs, a demo record of sorts, spotlighting a variety of recording artists on a certain label. The song was “I Love My Bed.” Without taking the time to do a search of my previous mention of it, let me start afresh by connecting to the room in which most of us spend the majority of our time: the bedroom.

“I love my bed. I’m so happy when I’m in it; I love every lazy minute, in my bed.”

Joan’s heard me sing that as I get under the covers (that quilt!) at night. Or, sometimes, as I just consider getting out of bed in the morning. I don’t sing the whole song, but I could. And I’d mean it. We human beings are meant to spend a third of our lives in bed. Eight hours is generally best for most of us, though like any “rule” it doesn’t apply equally to everyone. But I like to aim at eight. There’s a coziness, a sense of security under the covers, mashing up the pillow ‘neath our heads, stretching out in an extra-long mattress (to accommodate what used to be my six foot length. (At my age, like the wicked waxing witch, I’m shrinking!!)

I used to be one of those we refer to as a “night person.” At least in my adulthood. In childhood, I had a firm bedtime, and recall those summer nights when this seven year-old was put to bed while hearing the neighborhood kids still playing outside in the setting sun. I complained, but I know now that Mom needed us three boys in bed so she’d have some time to decompress before her own bedtime.

But as an adult who often stayed up too late (too late for what?), there was no usual bedtime.

I still think about the nights I would be recording radio shows beyond the wee small hours of the morning, a situation dictated by available studio time in borrowed production rooms. I couldn’t get into the studios until the station personnel had left the building, and with the normal technical glitches one expected in recording studios, my work might carry me through the overnight until Alden Aaroe entered the station at 5 a.m. to read the hog futures on his morning show farm report. “Morning, Alden!” “Good night, Jeff.”

And there were those Saturday nights in parish ministry. It’s not that I let sermon prep go until the last minute. Honest! I’d begun the scriptural exegesis and study earlier in the week, contemplated the meaning of the text, considered how to structure the “proclamation of the Word,” and look for affective/effective illustrations. But sometimes the actual writing took me well past midnight Saturday night. I’d hit the bed thankful for the few hours rest I might get before the jangling alarm called me to attention and moved me to the shower.

But now, I thank God — literally–, that most nights I look forward to that slumber, that “I love my bed” feeling, whenever I feel like it. 10:30 p.m.? Midnight? Whenever. And I can sleep until my body says, “Enough, Kellam. Time to rise and shine. Or at least glow a little.” And then check the sleep app and see how I did. Yeah, a sleep app. We now have a smart bed. (Hey, at our age, it’s the last bed we’ll ever buy, so we got one, OK?) And every morning since we got that thing, Joan checks her app and I check mine to see how the night went. Silly, huh? We thought the novelty would wear off, but there’s still just this tiny bit of competition. When I announced at breakfast that my “Sleep Score” was 88, Joan said hers was 89. Drat! (When I told a medical pro about the smart bed and how it tracks even heart rate and something called “Heart Rate Variability,” he asked if the bed tracked the more intimate things a bed might be used for. I haven’t seen any evidence of that.)

I really do dislike the idea of setting an alarm to wake me from the bed I love. But life goes on and sometimes we do have to be sure we’re up at a certain time. We have a small digital clock that has a variety of sounds we can choose from, so we are awakened gently by birds: chirps, calls, and songs. I still don’t like it.

One more thing about the bedroom. It is the scene of dreams. I dream every single night. And many times. Now, our memory banks erase most of those fantasies, so that there’s room for the memories of our waking life, but I do recall bits and pieces, sometimes only the setting or the people involved. Certain themes repeat, but mostly I wonder at where these nightly dramas come from. Sure, something glimpsed the previous day might feed the subconscious “dreamweaver” (thank you, Gary Wright, for the term) an idea for a REM-produced vision. But other times, my gosh, where did that come from?!

One more thing about the room. There are, admittedly, some restless nights. Despite the cozy quilt, the desire and need for rest, the comfort of the mattress and pillow, there are times when, for some reason, we just can’t sleep. Restless legs? Anxiety about the next day? A simple itch? The room is dark, the bed encouraging, the quiet sufficient. But sleep escapes us. I’m rarely insomniac. But when I am, like everyone else, I toss and turn, and my app goes crazy. Ugh.

I suppose I could have added to this “room” essay some details about the furniture, the TV we never watch, the walk-in closet too full, or the portable audio players I listen to when going to bed earlier than usual, a Sony Walkman in the mix! Or, the prayers I say at bedtime as I recount the day and look for the sunrise. Sunrise? Ha! As if. But enough.

Sleep tight. Be at peace.

I’ve just closed my eyes again
Climbed aboard the dream weaver train
Driver take away my worries of today
And leave tomorrow behind

Ooh, ooh, dream weaver
I believe you can get me through the night
Ooh, ooh, dream weaver
I believe we can reach the morning light

(Gary Wright)