Vigils

December dark. 2:30 a.m., post-holiday party. Saturday, then to Sunday, in silence.
I wake—sleep rendered light by red wine, so I am easily stirred by snowplow’s scrape.
Headlights beam through window and illuminate the bedroom wall.
The wheels crunch snow—forward, reverse, forward, reverse—as the blade scrapes clean
against asphalt of the corner of West Third and Hill Street for tomorrow’s school buses,
ambulances, morning commuters.
Blanket tucked to my chin, I think of this unseen public servant: gloved hands, face obscured
with a scarf, boot-clad feet, the sleeping husband or wife left behind for this service.

A few miles south, at the abbey, monks vest themselves in Advent dark: tunic, scapular, mantle.
Then, they file wordlessly into the choir.
Sleep-heavy fingers clumsy and cold as they arrange Divine Office book ribbons.
This is not private devotion.
Lament, praise, complaint, thanksgiving—for those who can’t or won’t offer it for themselves—
Even for those who roll their eyes and say, “medieval superstition, fairy tale nonsense.”
Timeless choreography: antiphon, psalm, doxology, inclination, antiphon, silence.
Candle flickers beside tabernacle: presence of One who does not sleep.
As it was in the beginning, is now, and shall be.

Anonymous mercy for sleepers who will not think of this labor tomorrow when they slap
an alarm clock, pour black coffee into a travel mug, fumble for car keys, then rush out the door.

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This poem also appears in the December 2022 issue of U.S. Catholic (Vol. 87, No. 12, page 21). Click here to subscribe to the magazine.