What a horror haunted night I’ve spent. I speak of no nightmares nor bad dreams. I lay awake, hour upon hour passing, turning and tossing and begging God for relief. The time is coming, and a dread I cannot fathom nears. So, I pray, and I say, “Not my will but Your will,” though the addendum breaks my heart.
Not my will but your will, God, but deliver us from evil.
There, I mumbled the Lord’s prayer, and sleep did come. A few blessed hours of rest. How I long for more. Tears in my eyes, in the darkness hours before dawn, I sit and write. It is a sort of prayer, an imprecation to God. Here I come, day after day, morning by morning, searching for the words. Please, God, this is what I want my life to be, a writer; I don’t want to go out and sweat and toil. Yet, the thing I long to do, I find for it merely an hour, if that.
Not my will, Your will, but deliver us from evil.
And I am still sick, still miserable in my body. Still, I must go out and work, work without good sleep, trying not to cough my head off as I feel like I’m dying. Lord, deliver me! Help me. Save me, my God.
Tale Told 