Night Shift

At the moment, I work the night shift. It’s really more of an afternoon shift going from 2 PM to 10 PM. It’s not conducive to a social life.  Or much else. One would think you would get more work done when it is quieter, but it’s not really the case. It’s certainly the claim, but not the case.  The night shift crew is an assorted group of disgruntled individuals, each with something they are a bit depressed about, none of them engaged in the job. I am the only woman on my team so I hear tales of romantic woe from a male perspective – and yes the genders DO have different perspectives.  It’s cold at night, and the stale air sits heavy in your lungs. By 10 PM you are having an allergic reaction – to the office, to work, to the air, who knows. Maybe it’s in your head.

Last night I had a taboo discussion with a fellow night-shifter, I’ll call him Dimples.  Dimples because he is youngish, but looks and acts much younger than he is. Because he says he wants to break up with his girlfriend, yet he still lives with her. Because he one minute says that he is afraid to be alone and the next says that he has no trouble meeting women. And I have a hard time believing that latter statement, until he flashes a sheepish grin and dimples appear. I’m pretty sure it’s the dimples that contribute to his success.

Dimples and I talked about religion.  ”I believe in logic.” That was his refrain. “That’s why it’s called faith.” My refrain.  Besides which, science and religion aren’t incompatible. Obviously we never solved that problem of what we were trying to get at.  We were both wondering how we happened to be here and what happens when we are gone. Unstated, I think it was a question about the meaning of life. A little light conversation for the night shift. We touched on physics, the big bang theory, the bible, and buddhism to name a few and I mentioned the time I was in Jerusalem, a disbelieving grad student, and the weird feeling I had of being in God’s presence while visiting the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. I haven’t remembered that in a long time. I’m pretty sure there is a God, although I completely understand not believing. I’m just not sure how it works.

What i’m not sure about is – if I’m pretty sure there is a God, but not how it works, does that mean I’m pretty sure there IS a meaning to life, but not what it is?  Because we didn’t really cover that possibility, that there might be no particular meaning.  It would be very hard to stomach.

I think if you have a family, it is easy. The meaning of life that is.  Love. To love and be loved back.  And kids, I think having kids forces you to witness a miracle, and perhaps the questioning stops – although I’m sure an entirely new kind of stress begins.  A friend recently had a baby and her sister keeps sending me the pictures. Of a teeny tiny human. He was born early, 5 pounds, a tiny little miracle, so small in pictures, yawning, smiling (probably gas), sleeping. What an incredible miracle. One I will likely never experience, being single and 38. And that hasn’t necessarily bothered me.

But it leads me to wonder, what was I put here to do. How can I honor God. Or otherwise put, honor the privilege of my existence.