I was like a little old lady this weekend. This was my confession when Bryan came home. Every night he was gone I walked the dog, steadied my steaming tea and walked upstairs to bed. It's not that I was tired. I intended to take full advantage of uninterrupted quiet.
I settled under the comforter with my books, my kindle, my knitting, my Bible study and my Bible circled around me. The next three hours were a kind of secret bliss.
When we used to watch TV in the evenings, three hours of reading in bed seemed like the dullest sort of self-discipline. While I knew it was good for me, and I always enjoyed a chapter or two before bed, a silent night of printed words asked too much of me. On those weekends when Bryan was gone, if I read one night, I rewarded myself with a movie the next. But now I have learned to love what I also know to be good.
In the quiet of the night, with a warm cup of tea, the book itself is my reward.
“It is pretty clear that the majority, if they spoke without passion and were fully articulate, would not accuse us of liking the wrong books, but of making such a fuss about any books at all. We treat as a main ingredient in our well-being something which to them is marginal. Hence to say simply that they like one thing and we another is to leave out nearly the whole of the facts.” C.S. Lewis
*I found this quote in George Grant's excellent post, A Literary Life.