Bedridden

There was a storm tonight. I skittered across the street in the fading light, dripping wet from the neighbor's pool, as the first drops spattered. By the time I emerged from the hot shower the night was booming and thrashing and rushing outside my window. By all accounts, the torrential rain and purple blinks of lightning should have thrilled me. I live for those reckless summer storms. But something about the erratic winds and the unpredictable sounds they gave the rain unsettled me, and I jumped at every crash of thunder as I folded laundry. I wanted to run into my parents' room and jump under their covers like I was six again.

And for reasons I couldn't give voice to, all I could think about was the people whose names I don't know. Who didn't have a room full of blankets, or the warm glow of lamps, or a roof and four walls to keep them dry. And I thought about the people who didn't have a place to spend the night, and I swallowed a lump in my throat and begged the Lord to protect them and just couldn't stand it that I didn't know where they were so I could pick them up and take them home.

By the time I went downstairs to watch Field of Dreams with my dad, the wind had stopped and the rain silently poured on, and my restless yearning faded. But now here I sit, tears in my eyes and the wildest unsettled feeling in my chest that I don't know what to do with. Geographically, I am surrounded by people who don't have a bed, and I travel through my life blindly and numbly, pushing away the twinge in my chest when one of them paces the intersection in front of the mall with their cardboard sign. And nothing is right about that.
Lord, there are so many injustices in this world and I feel so small because I can do little about many of them. But I just know that everyone should have a bed.

And I have one, and maybe that's the reason I can't fall asleep.