Dearest Rachel –
I woke up this morning at three, and I hardly need to tell you it was done unwillingly. Every so often, my body slides down that wedge pillow I use to keep my upper body propped up so that I’m sleeping flat on my back, which may be comfortable at first, but eventually begins to nag at me to the point of actually waking me up. This means I kind of have to start over at far as sleeping goes, arranging myself so that I don’t move, and often covering my eyes so that it’s still dark (you might think that should be easy at three o’clock, but I think the neighbor’s motion-sensing lights on their back porch are a little too sensitive; quite a bit seeps in from their side of our – sorry, my – bedroom) so that I can get back to the land of sleep, if not dreams.
But there was something else that was now hindering my return to slumber; a distant, high-pitched voice. I say ‘distant’ despite knowing full well where and who it was coming from; Daniel was (and is) on the opposite end of the house as I am, and he surely assumed (quite logically, up to this point) that he wasn’t disturbing anyone with what noise he was making. After all, neither Logan (who, rooming upstairs, was even farther away from him than myself) nor I had said anything about the commotion he was making, either last night or on the regular.
However, while I can’t speak for Logan, that’s not because I can’t hear him, or that it doesn’t bother me. There are times when Daniel appears to be praying (especially when he’s listening to those prophets and pundits I used to tell you about. That’s not been as common since Logan moved in, but on days when I stay home – for instance, when Kris comes over, I feel the need to get out of both her way and Daniel’s, as I’ve no desire to listen to that stuff), and does so in this shrill falsetto. His words also come across to me as a childish babble; maybe it’s just that I’m not paying attention (after all, it’s not as if he’s talking to me), but it almost sounds like he has his own prayer language. On being asked about it, he’s actually told me from time to time that it’s not him that’s speaking, but rather God to him. And while I can’t wrap my head around that (I had enough trouble with that when Dena took me to a Pentacostal healing service once), I can’t bring myself to tell him otherwise. How dare I suggest that it’s not God talking to him, when it may very well be?
It’s a situation not unlike when we’re singing in church; his voice is naturally deep when he talks, but when he’s participating in worship songs, he uses what to me sounds like an unnatural falsetto, and while I don’t know what other people may think of it (apart from those walking past us as they enter the auditorium late – we’ve been relegated to the row against the back wall, as his motions have been determined to be a distraction for some people, but when he spins around and drops to his knees, he comes dangerously close to striking the stragglers. The crazy thing is that he’s never connected with any of them yet, and because of that, I doubt he’s even aware of how close he comes), but I find it offputting and embarrassing. And yet, I can’t bring myself to tell him to stop, or even tone it down; how can I say he’s not doing what he’s doing with his whole heart? Especially since, by my self-consciousness, I’m clearly not worshipping with mine.
But back to last night. Again, I’m reluctant to get up and tell him to stop; it’s not my call to quench the Spirit if it’s truly moving in him, nor is it necessarily mine to say whether He is or isn’t. Even if those preachers he listens to aren’t truly sincere – and I’m still on the fence about that, although their unwavering devotion to any political figure still bothers me, especially when their ‘prophecies’ haven’t (and I still say they won’t) come true – there’s no doubt in my mind about Daniel’s own sincerity, and so I want to give him as much leeway as possible, even if it does render him that much more socially awkward.
But at three in the morning, and me unable to fall back asleep because of that shrill, sharp voice (not exactly like the one calling out to Elijah back in the day), I padded out toward the family room to find out what exactly that voice was.
It turned out to be that he was watching yet another episode of Onegai My Melody, some Sanrio-produced anime he’s recently gotten into. Again, I’m in no position to criticize one’s taste in anime – glass houses and all that – but considering the time, and the fact that there was no question about this being divinely-inspired stuff, I felt well within my rights to let him know what time it was, and ask whether he planned to actually get some sleep while it was still dark out. To his credit, he was apologetic; like you, he loses track of time once the sun’s down, it seems, and has so much he wants to do during the night that he apparently didn’t get to do (or finish) during the day (and while I still insist he’d have more time if he went to bed and woke up earlier, he was up by seven yesterday morning, for reasons unknown to either of us, so there’s that). He was in bed – or should I say ‘in couch’? – with all the lights out before I’d managed to drift off, true to his word.
There are times when I wonder if I shouldn’t get myself a helmet to sleep in. Not that it would protect me from anything – after all, it’s my back that suffers during my worst nights and mornings, which it wouldn’t help with – but just as a means of sensory deprivation. Between a sunglass visor and a padded interior, it could shut out both light and noise (apart from the internal tinnitus I still find myself dealing with), and Daniel could do as he pleased. Or would that make me just that much more of a bad parent, allowing him so much leeway?
In any event, keep an eye on me, honey, and wish me luck. I’m going to need it.
Letters to Rachel 