Gut check

I couldn't fall asleep last night. So I spent the better part of an hour flipping through channels as if the combination of satellite and television would offer some sort of relief.

I ended up on the movie "Dazed and Confused," 1993's version of "Fast Times at Ridgemont High" with less plot and more Jeff Spicolis.

It's funny, how profound a stoner movie can be when it's 1 a.m. and you're desperate for sleep.

But when your baby is about to turn nine and college becomes your oldest daughter's topic of choice, it makes an impression when a character says: You know, I'd like to quit thinking of the present -- like right now -- as some minor insignificant preamble to something else.

I wrote the words down, and then I looked at my little girl, who had usurped her dad's spot on the bed while seeking refuge from an earlier lightning storm.

Her eyes were closed. Her body sprawled out like a starfish across the bed. Her red hair fell away from her face like a fiery halo. When she was a baby, I had wondered if all of those curls acted as a built-in pillow when they bunched beneath her head.

As I watched her sleep, I found myself searching for the memories of when she and her sister grew up. Although I'd spent almost every hour of every day with them, I could only find a few.

Far fewer than what there should have been.

I suddenly felt like Rip Van Winkle, emerging from a deep sleep after so many years, discovering that I'd lost precious time because I had looked at the present as a minor preamble to something else.

A few nights ago at the supper table, my oldest daughter prayed -- quite pointedly, might I add -- that "some of us" (meaning her crabby mother) would find more patience and stop worrying so much about the future because "God will provide."

I think her prayer was answered last night.