It's twelve:thirty am and I can't sleep. Perhaps it's the sudden change. We have bundled for so long, now our windows are open, my chocolate brown curtains blowing humidity across the room. I've always written best late at night. Don't expect much now though.

I've been listening to this all day. Not for real, just in my head. A repetitive reel of what really matters.

I've been crying a lot recently. Not the sort of sobs that isolate and suffocate. The sort that come at inopportune moments and others that aren't. I'm laying here awake not because I'm not tired, but because all I can do is think.

I'm thinking about how this earthly tent is housing a body of death and not much else. I'm lazy and inconsistent. Irritable and fond of substitutes. I'm selfish and entitled to it. I burned my hand on the oven the other night and I scratched my finger along the blistering skin an hour ago. It hurts. We hiked seven miles yesterday, a bit of it in the rain; I slipped down a hill and my knee hurts. Badly. I shake myself out of the slump I've fallen into at work, frustrated by how little I accomplish and how much is left to do. I look at my bank account and I shrug. It's just living, right? It's supposed to hurt a little.

That might not all seem to link, but it does. Believe me.

He sings, Deliver me courage to guide me, Deliver me Your strength inside me.

And I'm singing it too.

Because we're all slowly dying, slowly fading. We're all fainting away and getting old. We need a Deliverer. I need a Deliverer. Because, honestly, I'm a take it as it comes sort of girl. I wait, peruse my options and if I don't like them, I turn up my nose. Or, I wait, don't get any options and shake my fist at God for not making good on all His promises.

What I mean is that I'm fearful and suspect. And ungrateful.

What I mean is that I need Him. And that I'm aware, in an ever increasing way, that I'm a person prone to wandering, failing, and dying. I need a Deliverer. I need a rescuer. I need Him.