Now I lay me down

Miriam absentmindedly poured too much chardonnay into a coffee mug as she listened to her sister explain their father’s condition. As Claire detailed that he’d been intubated and given oxygen, Miriam sipped and sifted though the words for clues about the actions the hospital staff was taking. She grabbed a pen and scribbled unfamiliar terms on the back of a piece of mail—words she’d likely forget but would Google later.

Claire continued with phrases including nitroglycerin, morphine, heparin and thrombolytics, and Miriam, was unsure if these actions and drugs had been administered, ruled out, or on deck. She nodded and then realized that her sister could not see her feigned acknowledgement, so she substituted well-timed "mmm-hmm’s”. The conversation ended as it always did, awkward, uneven, talking over each other before they fell into their natural parts.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Miriam asked, knowing what the answer would be.

“No, there’s nothing you can do from there. We’re here with him, and I will call you and keep you updated as things happen” Claire reassured. “Why don’t you try to get some sleep; you sound tired,” said Claire —though it was more projection than concern. She’d been the one awake for 32 hours, ever since she received a call from their father’s girlfriend Gloria “I think Harold’s having a heart attack. They’re taking him to St. Vincent’s now.”

But she wasn’t wrong. Miriam was tired. She was exhausted. But sleep was not something that came to her easily, or ever.

“…and pray”, Claire added. Also, something that didn’t come to Miriam easily.

Miriam lay on top of her bed, still dressed, the lights still on. She felt useless. The only thing she was being asked to do was to pray for the father she loved.

What good would it do? Wasn’t everybody else already praying? What difference would her prayers make? She started out thinking, “God, please help my father get better”. She thought about praying for the doctors and the nurses at St. Vincent’s who are taking care of him. She thought about praying for their families because their loved ones were taking care of her dad.

But she felt insufficient. What would God do with this hopeless request from someone who only thinks about God in the moments when she really needs something?

Miriam was ashamed and embarrassed. She turned over and cried into her pillow—a gut-wrenching, hollow cry. She pitied herself for her inability to be there for her family the way they had been for her.

When she had exhausted herself, she thought back to bedtime as a child, when she and Claire faced one another in their twin beds. Each night, in their pajama’s, on their knees, eyes closed, heads bowed, hands to their faces, their mother and father in the doorway as they recited in unison, “Now I lay me down to sleep. I pray the Lord my soul to keep, if I should die before I wake, I pray to the Lord my soul to take”.

“God bless Mommy and Daddy”, and they would say each other’s names overlapping.

“God bless Claire”. “God bless Miriam”

“God bless Grandma and Grandpa, and God bless Aunt Pam and Uncle John”

“…and God bless Robin and Hope and Harry and Sandy”

“…and God bless Peaches and Romeo.”

The order never changed and their cat Peaches and Romeo the yellow lab were always last, but in Miriam ‘s mind, they could’ve easily followed Mommy and Daddy. The order seemed to matter to everyone else, and whenever Miriam tried to change the order, someone would say, “Miriam, come on. Let’s say our prayers the right way!” or “Miriam please let’s just say our prayer so we can go to sleep.”

She tried to remember when she and Claire stopped that ritual—kneeling beside their beds, reciting names like beads on a rosary. She didn’t remember when they stopped, but she realized that for decades, those prayers seemed to have worked until her mom and her aunt Pam became ill in the same year. When did they stop asking God to protect them?

The last time Miriam prayed was before her mother died. During both their funeral services when the pastor would say, “Let us bow our heads in prayer”, Miriam’s brain and heart were quiet.

Unsure of what moved her, Miriam found herself on her knees with her torso pressed up against the side of her bed, elbows raised, her palms touching, and her eyes closed. Out of her memory came a rarely recited verse to their nightly prayers.

“Now I lay me down to rest, for Jesus sake I’ll do my best, to love, to share, always be kind, be patient, forgiving all the time… ahh men. “

Miriam realized that part of the prayer wasn’t a plea—it was a promise to God. And looking back on her life, something she often avoided with the devotion of those who pray, she saw that she had mostly kept her promise.

She was doing her best. She loved her family, and there had been others. She shared willingly and she would have done more for her father if she could and if Gloria and Claire had trusted her. She had patience that her life was going to change and that this fog she’d been in for the past few years was going to lift. She had faith in that. Miriam was forgiving; she didn’t fault anyone with the circumstances of her life. Everyone had their own life to live, and that included Claire who had a family and a career and friends who she poured so much into. Miriam didn’t require much.

What she hadn’t done in a very long time was rest. Or sleep. And that was the other thing her sister had asked her to do. So, she turned onto her back, looked up at the ceiling, closed her eyes, and whispered, “Dear God, I believe.”

And she slept.