NeuroDivine

A morning reflection on readiness, quiet encouragement, and the grace of rising together when the signal comes.

The readings for this morning—Psalm 111, 1 Maccabees 7:1–20, and John 13:21–30—carry a strange tension. Praise and betrayal. Courage and compromise. A candlelit room where someone slips out into the dark. And yet, the psalmist begins with a whole-hearted thank you. Not because everything is resolved, but because the rhythm of gratitude holds firm.

The rule’s chapter on sleep is not just about rest—it’s about readiness. About being clothed, steady, and able to rise when the signal comes. For those of us who live by machines and medical timetables, this isn’t abstract. Dialysis doesn’t wait for inspiration. The call to rise is real, and sometimes it comes before dawn, before comfort, before clarity.

There’s mercy in the candle kept burning until morning. It’s not dramatic—it’s practical. It says: you are not alone. Even if your body is slow to respond, even if your thoughts are tangled, even if the night has been long—there is light enough to find your way.

I’m struck by the instruction that the younger ones sleep among the older. Not to control, but to anchor. To be near those who’ve learned how to rise gently, how to encourage the drowsy without shame. It’s a rhythm I’ve seen in clinics and communities—those who’ve lived through the cycles offering quiet nods, spare words, a shared blanket of understanding.

And I think of Judas, slipping out into the morning’s shadow. Not condemned by the candle, but seen by it. Known. Named. And still, the others are told to rise. To continue. To encourage one another. Not because betrayal doesn’t matter, but because the work of love continues anyway.

So this morning, I give thanks with my whole heart. For the candle. For the separate beds and shared rhythms. For the belts without knives. For the grace of being ready—not flawless, but present. And for the quiet miracle of rising together.