Fetal position

I'm writing quickly because it's cold. I know you're tempted to remind me that I live in Alaska so naturally it's cold. 

But I live in the rainforest part of Alaska where it tends to be mild. I'm sorry Fairbanks and even sorrier Barrow, I'm cold at ten above.

So, my husband is now warming up the bed and if I wait about fifteen more minutes, then it will be cozy and I won't scream and swear when I get in. I'll cuddle up with him and chat until it is serious sleep time.

Then, I will curl up in fetal position with my feet outside the covers. No, it's not easy, but I manage it every night.

I fall asleep in fetal position and I'm sure there are studies about people who insist on sleeping like a potato bug, but it's how I'm wired. 

I read once of a culture, which I can't remember, that buried their dead in fetal position. I'm sure I could look it up, but I like the idea much better than flat in a box, burned in an oven or even worse made into a paperweight. 

I'm thinking about fetal position, sleeping and dying, because it's Advent. As the rest of culture celebrates Christmas, happiness and buying lots of stuff, the church puts on darkness, stories of endings, and the profound hope of something new rising. 

It's hard to be funny in Advent and my sermons are never the sharpest, but I'm okay curling up in the dark in fetal position to wait.