The other night, I couldn’t fall asleep.

This doesn’t happen. I fall asleep, often before I can finish praying through my nightly prayer. But this time, I was awake.

Eventually, I went downstairs to the sofa and covered up. I listened to the house creak, I listened to the boiler, I listened to my breathing. I listened to the unformed noise in my head. And I thought about Samuel.

Samuel was a ministry intern. He lived at the tabernacle compound near Shiloh, learning the routines of the Lord’s presence. He learned the routines, but he hadn’t heard the voice of God. Nobody was hearing that voice in those days.

They had the words of God, the tablets and the teachings of Moses, the stories of Deborah and Gideon and Samson. But there wasn’t anything like that happening now.

Except for the story Samuel was in the middle of. It had started before he was born, with an assurance to Hannah, his mom, from Eli, the priest. “May the God of Israel grant the request you’ve made of him,” he said. And Hannah had the child she’d longed and prayed for. Samuel.

Now, years later, Samuel is interning. A voice wakes him up, speaking his name.

Twice, Samuel assumes it’s Eli, the priest. Who sends him back to bed. The third time, Eli realizes this may be God, finally speaking to someone. He sends Samuel back to bed. “If he calls you,” Eli told Samuel, “say ‘Speak, Lord, for your servant is listening.” God spoke, Samuel listened, and his calling was confirmed.

As I lay on the sofa, I wondered. “Speak, Lord,” I said. I didn’t hear any voices. Or one voice.

So I turned the light on and read a couple more chapters of Matthew Kim’s book, Preaching to People in Pain: How Suffering Can Shape Your Sermons and Connect with Your Congregation. It’s for a couple projects I’m working on.

And then I curled up and went to sleep.