Father as Night Watchman
And Bedtime breath shepherd
Ordinarily I post in the morning, but this seems appropriate for the night.
I reliably wake up at 3 am each night. I do not stay awake but I am usually up for about an hour. I toss a bit, and not infrequently pull the blankets off of my wife. I adjust my pillow. I turn on a bit of music. (These days it’s either the Celtic sounds of Loreena McKennit or it’s ancient sacred music like Rachmaninoff’s Vespers.)
I have done this for a while. It happens more as I grow older. I know I’m growing older because I was given a ‘senior coffee’ at McDonalds recently without asking for it.
I also know that I am not alone. Many of my friends do this. Jan does it too, though perhaps not as often as I. All too often this hour of alertness has left me pondering my life, asking myself if I had made good choices, wondering if the good I had done had in any way balanced the bad. To that extent it was often unpleasant.
However it turns out that this sort of behavior is quite common for humans. It has been documented, in various patterns, from ancient times. It was sometimes referred to ‘first sleep and second sleep.’ https://www.bbc.com/future/article/20220107-the-lost-medieval-habit-of-biphasic-sleep
Humans would sleep, wake in the middle of the night for chores, socialization or intimacy, then go back to sleep till later. I suspect that it was probably a very, very ancient pattern of waking to ensure that the cave or hut or cabin or barn was safe from the predation of man or beast. No Ring alarms for most of history, after all. (Of course, it might have been the only time parents could chat and laugh without the interruption of their young.)
Thinking about it reminds me of how much I love securing our home at bedtime. I have always enjoyed checking the locks and turning out the lights. Checking ths cooktop. Putting my flashlight by my bedside. Ensuring that my clothes (and weapons) are nearby if we have a crisis.
In winter, especially, I like to make sure that the cats outside have a little extra food, and a warm place to curl up into feline dreams. When we had a great pack of outside dogs, I would do the same for them, for they did not like being inside.
In winter I still look out to ensure that the light which heats our well-pump is on, so that the pipes don’t freeze. Water is precious. And I am in no way qualified work on either plumbing or electricity.
When the children were small bedtime meant reading stories. So many books and tales, from Shel Silversteinto Beowulf! There was so much laughter and learning! Nightfall was a great joy for this reason. With one child on my lap and three others around, I would read and change voices, play with rhymes and explain ideas. This delighted me and gave their mother a bit of rest from a day full of ‘mama, mama, mama.’ Bedtime was Papa’s. (One day I’ll write a post of my favorite bedtime books.)
We would also read the Bible and have bedtime prayers, introducing them to the beauty and depth of both as their eyes grew heavy.
Sometimes I would sing them to sleep. I would do it again in a heartbeat.
Many nights a frightened child would ask one of us to sleep next to them; we often woke hours later, a sweating son or daughter plastered against us and the moon high in the sky. We would extricate ourselves and then lie down together, exhausted but delirious.
Once the children were asleep I would go from room to room and touch them, feeling the rise and fall of each child’s breath, the beating of their small hearts. Or I would watch for that subtle rise and fall, listen for the quiet inhalation and exhalation of their wee lungs.
On these nights, awake in the dark, I considered myself the ‘breath shepherd,’ watching in the night for their safety. I would pray over them again, for safety and blessing in the coming years. It was a kind of priestly act in the cathedral of our home, mystically far more vast inside than out.
Some years ago Jan had a very nearly fatal battle against cancer. And in her sickness and struggle, in her weight loss and shortness of breath, I came to do the same. I would roll over and put my hand on her, ensuring that she was breathing as well. Praying for her deliverance.
Over the decades I have worked many nights in the ER. To some extent, a night watchman for my patients as well, who are afflicted with both sickness and fear in the night; especially the night. They remember the fear of their ancestors, I suppose. Wolves have been replaced by heart attacks, enemies by fever, but danger remains.
These days I don’t mind the way my sleep is divided in two. It gives me a chance to listen to the emptiness of the night. Or to look through the window at the brilliance of stars. To wonder if the light in the forest is a neighbor or a fairy. To touch my wife’s hip and listen as she breathes and dreams.
This is my natural role. I am husband and father. It is the glorious burden of duty to those I love; to wake, to listen, to watch and to ponder. I wouldn’t trade it for any full-night of sleep. I was born for this. It is the honor of protection. It is the thing I wish for my sons, my nephews and every man who seeks true meaning. No job, no wealth, no entertainment could compete with this.
I worry less these days (a little less). And in the night, I pray more. Sometimes as simple as the ancient Jesus Prayer. “Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, Have Mercy on Me a Sinner.’
It is a sweet time. Perhaps God awakens me so that we can have a bit of time, just the two of us.
I used to joke that when I retire, I want to be the night watchman in a mall, and walk about checking doors, without the press of sick patients and chaos.
On reflection, I’ve been a night watchman all along.
Sweet dreams.
When I began reading your essay, I immediately thought, "Ah! I can be a wiseacre and educate Edwin and Readers about "second sleep." Then I saw that that, in fact, was the subject of your illuminating piece, so no need to do that.
I'll say that your 3am accounting of your life reminds me of a tiny 1881 novel, "The Posthumous Memoirs of Brás Cubas" or "Epitaph of a Small Winner," by Joaquim Maria Machado de Assis--often considered Brazil's greatest writer. The narrator is already dead and spends the book recalling the pluses and minuses of his life, trying to decide whether he had done more good than harm during his time on earth. It is an amusingly pessimistic book. I read it 50 years ago, but it sticks with me stall. A year later, he wrote "The Alienist" (known better today as "The Psychiatirst"), described as follows: "a prominent physician whose sincere obsession for discovering a universal method to cure pathological disorders drives inhabitants of the small Brazilian town of Itaguaí to fear, conspiracy, and revolutionary attempts."
I am an enthusiastic second-sleeper. I also typically wake up around 3am and either read a bit or answer emails. People often ask "Did you have insomnia last night?" I answer that I may be the best sleeper in the Western Hemisphere, falling asleep easily, waking up in timely fashion without alarm, and sleeping soundly between. Except that almost every night, I awaken for a brief spell around 3.
I recall reading about the invention of the alarm clock. Through most of history, it was unnecessary. No one was clocking you in. Seems to me that the earliest practicable was made by a clock-maker who had trouble getting up in time for work.
I read this between my first and second sleep. I spend it on the phone. Not nearly as soothing as your time spent.