spot.

Sunday was pretty uneventful. With the previous week bursting at the seems with need-to-dos, and want-to-dos, even Saturday night had us hitting both his school prom and mine (chaperones, of course), we decided to utilize the Lord’s day of rest for ourselves. Rest, for someone who is restless and stir-crazy, does not come easily or naturally.
 
Saturday night I fell asleep on the couch. Clearly, not a shocker for those of you who know me, this is my reoccurring ritual. The routine goes, that once Jason is ready, he wakes me up and in my comatose, Linus-from-Peanuts-state, I grab my blanket and I drag it and myself up the stairs following the procession of sleepy puppies. Quiggles, always takes the lead. On a good night, Aussie and Quigley will both get into proper position at the foot of the bed. On a bad night, one, the other, or both steal my pillow and I whimper, literally whimper, until Jason comes to my rescue and moves the furchildren. I’m dramatic. We all know this. Add lack of sleep, I become Oscar worthy.  
 
Somehow last Saturday night was disrupted. Around 5 am, my body’s natural alarm clock sounded and I awoke to the “ting, ting, ting” of soft rain falling on our tin roof. Instead of rolling over and seeing the three loves of my life, I saw Jason’s spot on the sectional. I checked my FitBit again. Yep, 5:08 am. No puppies in sight. “Traitors,” I think to myself. I envisioned them curled up on my memory foam pillow under my all-season down comforter without a care in their puppy world.
 
In Jason’s defense, when he asked me to come to bed, I convincingly responded, “I’ll be up in a minute.” Of course, this was his version of the story, but this clearly sounds like me, sleep talking, sleep negotiating.
 
Regardless, I slept well. I got up and made my way to the Keurig and hit ON. “Clip, Clap, Clip, Clap” came Quigley’s quick feet down the stairs. Very much a morning puppy like his mother. He’s always ready for the day’s adventure. “Stomp . . . Stomp . . . Stomp,” Aussie begrudgingly followed with her slow, methodically taken steps, only appearing in case she misses out on something important like a good morning T- R- E- A- T.
 
I grab my coffee, splash in some coconut milk, and head to my spot in the office. My office is the formal sitting room right off the entrance. I am clearly not a decorator as it sits scattered with novels and nonfiction texts on the floor in one corner. Two antique club chairs in the middle with nothing visually to anchor them, both desperately needing re-upholstery. Lastly, my self painted yellow desk takes center stage loaded down with yearbooks on both sides, completed devotionals, journals, and planners scattered about on top; all open, all written in, all loaded down with entangled thoughts. Instead of an office chair, my spot (as Sheldon would claim) is an extra piece of our beloved sectional. Yep, the one I just slept on. I love it. It’s perfect. I could write a Petrarchan sonnet about how much I love it. All fourteen lines would reaffirm that this couch was in fact, made for this family. Unfortunately, or well fortunately, when we ordered our furniture mid home reconstruction, we overestimated the space for our sectional and now have an additional piece. Having moved it to my office to get it out of the way, it quickly became my writing go-to. My spot. 
 
It’s wide enough for me to slouch on, comfy enough for long hours of reading, writing, or editing. I usually drag a club chair close to prop my feet up on between me and the desk as I’m doing right now.
 
“Ok, God. It’s 5ish in the morning. I have my coffee. I’m in my spot. Speak to me,” I said out loud to God last Sunday morning. Again, this is Sunday morning. Yes, our day of rest. Yes, I “slept in” till 5:08 am.
 
But I just sat there, in my spot, with my feet propped up, wrapped up in my Linus blankey, holding my coffee, waiting on my God to speak. Here lately, God has chosen to speak to me through other people’s words. Or maybe I just listen more attentively to a voice that is similar to my own. I have a stack of nonfiction texts that I need and desire to conquer but starting a new one this morning doesn’t feel right. Instead, I just sit. No lights. No sounds. Just the “tink, tink, tink” of the rain. I can hear Jason’s audible breathing up above me echoing from our undecorated, Benjamin Moore painted walls. 

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