Boy, I wish I could talk directly to Milosz or a prophet of old. As a
Christian, I believe that we can pray directly to the One In Charge,
the Lord God Almighty. Alas, that isn't enough for me. I want to
consult unearthly wise people who had walked before me on this planet,
who struggled with pain, doubt, temptation, and defeat. I believe that
Jesus did all those things, and hence, God can sympathize with our
plight as humans. Yet Jesus did not sin. I want to commune with great
but frail people who sinned as I have. I want to ask how they kept
going even while they bumbled and messed things up. To his credit,
Jesus never screwed up -- he was perfect.

Let there be no mistaking me: it's the greatest news that Jesus was
both like us and not like us. He showed us that there is a way beyond
our own individual and collective quagmires. I don't need a besmirched
Jesus. Yet, even as a card-carrying Protestant, I confess to the appeal
of holding up a pantheon of capital-S Saints, those who fall between us
and perfection.

For the vast majority of nights when I turn off the lights for sleep, I
have been blessed by a clear conscience. Last night, I started to lose
the courage of my convictions, which is a terrible thing to happen when
I'm trying to sleep. I need to put a stop to working too late. The
demons of self-doubt are strongest when I set out to work on a task
that is greater than the time I have before me. It's time to reapply
what I learned when writing my Ph.D. dissertation: set a time to stop
work well before bedtime (regardless of how much I accomplished or
didn't accomplish that day), and honor the Sabbath. When I was feeling
most desperate and helpless, working long hours for six days a week,
Sundays were the most sweet. I long to come back to that experience of
rest and freedom in the midst of busyness.