The world was not perfect — it never had been and never would be; it was full of pitfalls and problems, of fear, of regrets and of bitter tears. Here and there, though, there were tiny points of light, hard to see at times, but there nonetheless, like the welcoming lights of home in the darkness. The flames that made these lights were hard to ignite, but occasionally, very occasionally, we found that we had in our hands the match that could be struck to start one of these little fires.

(Mma Ramotswe, in The Handsome Man’s De Luxe Cafe, by Alexander McCall Smith)

I couldn’t sleep last night. It had something to do with the fact that the world is not perfect. After realizing that I had been staring wide-eyed at the ceiling for several minutes, I got up. I told my wife “I can’t sleep, so I’m going to go read for a while,” waking her of course, for no reason really. I suspect that’s a holdover from 50 years ago when, as a child, waking up in the middle of the night, I would walk down the hall to my parent’s bedroom and let my Mom know that I couldn’t sleep: “Mom, I can’t sleep.” She’d say “Just lay down, and be real still, and you’ll go back to sleep.” Profound. I don’t know why that didn’t occur to me. I did that and, eventually, though I might have to get up and tell her that again, have her take me back to bed and tuck me in, I went to sleep. Well, I grew out of that coddling practice though not the need to announce my insomnia. (Thankfully, my wife usually doesn’t remember me telling her and is always gentle in her unconscious response.)

In college there was a variation of this. I’d be having a difficult time at school, academically or relationally, and I’d get in my car and drive home, pull in the driveway and see the light in the kitchen window. I knew my Mom would be in there sitting at the kitchen table drinking black coffee. Opening the door and letting the screen slap behind me, I stepped into yesterday. Nothing had changed. By the time I was fed and watered and bedded down, all was well. I was anchored by normality, and I went to sleep in my teenage year’s bed, surrounded by all that I had left behind, home.

I don’t have that home anymore. And my mother is, as Mma Ramotswe says, “late.” I do have a green chair, warm blanket, a sleeping wife, a candle in the window, and a book of big truths wrapped in modest garments — tiny points of light.

And the welcoming light of home. And the Light of lights.

And that’s enough.