Here’s the deal. Sometimes you can’t sleep and when you can’t sleep you’ll try anything. Watching television. Not watching television. Netflix on your computer. A book. (That lasts about two pages.) And then down to the refrigerator. Glass of milk. Tall and cold and delicious, and it reminds you of your childhood when you used to be able to sleep. And a piece of toast. Sourdough toast. And then peanut butter on your toast. No jelly. No honey. Just sourdough toast and peanut butter. And milk. Tall glass of milk. Back to bed. Lights out. No sleep. You even pray. “Dear God help me sleep.” You decide to try music. And then for some strange reason you begin listening to Dan Fogelberg and think back to when you were 17 and listening to Dan Fogelberg and falling in love with Marti Sweeney, and then you wonder how you can now be 57 ridiculous-years-old and still listening to Dan Fogelberg in the middle of the night. And so you listen. And begin to relax. And then this . . . Capture the moment, carry the day / Stay with the chase as long as you may / Follow the dreamer, the fool and the sage / Back to the days of the innocent age / Storybook endings never appear / They’re just someone’s way of leading us here / Waiting for wisdom to open the cage /We forged in the fires of the innocent age. And then it is morning. You raise your head off the pillow with one earplug glued inside your ear and the other dangling across your face like a spider web. You’re puzzled by a dream of going to a birthday at the Kennedy house in Hyannis Port, but there’s not time to figure that one out. Here’s the deal: You slept for a few hours. And you think how grace arrives in so many different ways, including arriving as a few hours of sleep. You Take a Breath. You say thank you to the morning. You even say thank you to God.