Monday, September 14, 2015

Without getting too specific about my age, I estimated the other day that I've slept roughly 12,500 nights in a warm, comfortable bed (not counting those 10 nights when I bedded down on what felt like wet concrete during army camp at school). 12,500 nights, and I don't think I've really ever thanked God for a single one of those. 

I've always thought that no matter what sort of day you've had, getting into a warm bed at the end of it somehow makes it all seem at least bearable. A little rest, a little respite, before heading back out into the madness. I have found this to be true just as much in adulthood as in my childhood; indeed, there is something about sleeping that makes us all little children for a few hours (and not just if you sleep in the foetal position like I do).

And yet, for the past few weeks, as I've seen image after image of migrants, both kids and adults alike, sleeping in the streets, on railway tracks, in car parks and toilets, it occurred to me that some of them have probably never had a single night in a proper bed. 

So much to be grateful for. But tonight, I'm going to start with a warm bed.

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