It is 4:30 AM. The room is buried in a heavy, uncompromising dark, save for the red numbers on the silent clock that glare loud and clear.
Sleep, where are you?

I lie perfectly still in bed, listening to the gentle, rhythmic chorus of my family sleeping around me—the quiet, steady hum of the fans moving the air.

Turning my head toward the bedroom door, I can see a faint, warm glow spilling into the hallway. It is the nightlight from my granddaughter’s room, a tiny beacon of absolute innocence and safety.

Beside me, Kevin sleeps soundly, his steady breathing a comforting anchor in the dark.

Everything in my immediate world is exactly as it should be. The house of God, the thoughts of the day, the beautiful, abundant blessings I am counting in the dark—they are all right here, safe under one roof.

My most recent storm, a brutal marathon that battered me for over two years, has finally run out of rain. It wasn’t my first tempest, and it likely won’t be my last, but for now, the sky is clear.

Yet, as my mind whirls through the darkness, the peace feels heavy. Outside these walls, so many people I care about are walking right into their own chaos, breaking under things they cannot control. And right here, in the quietest hour of the morning, the guilt creeps in. It feels like a betrayal to be this warm, this fortunate, while the rest of the world is still out in the cold.

Is my life perfect? Absolutely not. No one’s is. But as I close my eyes and listen again to the rhythmic hum of the fans, I force myself to just breathe it in.

The storms have taken enough of my years; I cannot let guilt steal the quiet harbor I have finally found. I lie here in the dark, caught between aching for the world and thanking God for the shelter, waiting for the morning light to finally break.