I can take all the madness the world has to give but I won't last a day without you.~Paul H. Williams/Roger S. Nichols (From the song I Won't Last A Day Without You)

My mind was a mess. I was trying to reach a state of mental poise by writing in my journal. Praying a bit. But it seemed I was holding a rucksack of dysregulated emotions. I felt as if I wasn't doing life right, couldn't keep up with all the things on my list; couldn't keep up with all the birthdays. So many people. And I hate to write fake birthday greetings. I always want to think of something meaningful to say. I can't just leave some already-written phrase from Linked In. I want to read more books, but then I scroll on Instagram too much. I want to be nicer to my neighbor who can hardly walk her dog. But then I avoid her. She doesn't remember much anyway. She probably won't remember that I haven't spoken to her in a few days. Ugh--a slush of insecurity, self-doubt and that gritty taste of shame in my heart I couldn't write in my journal--slammed it shut. Better I go grocery shopping. 

I got in the car and made my way to Walmart. As a waited in traffic, a faded yellow pick-up idled in front of me. I squinted to read the sticker on the driver's back windshield. Luke 24:6. I didn't know the Bible verse. When I got home, I remembered the Scripture reference and looked it up. "He is not here. He is risen." All the groceries were put away, there was nowhere I needed to be. i sat down in my favorite chair and opened Pandora. Karen Carpenter was singing, "I Won't Last A Day Without You." Tears rolled down my cheeks. In all my dysregulation, I had not considered to stop and be honest with Jesus, the alive One. I began to talk to Him and tell Him how I felt, that I knew He is the One I can't live without. Can't last a day without.

God yearns for our flourishing.~Eugene Cho

My mother expected a lot from me sometimes. She'd drop me off at the new school and smile, "Have a good day. See you at three." I longed for her to come into the school with me. I didn't know my way around. I was eight. I could feel my heart beating with anxiety. I hadn't yet sat under the tutelage of Mr. Rogers' wisdom that whispered, "When you don't know where to go or what to do, look for the helpers." A helper did arrive, a friendly teacher who found me wandering the halls. I did know my new teacher's name. The kind helper grabbed my hand and led me to my classroom. I felt relieved to find an empty desk, students still milling around in the chaos of the the first day of school. I wasn't late. My heartbeat slowed. I'd already memorized how to get to the new classroom. Tomorrow would be less scary.

Other times, my mother took me to places I liked to go. She stayed with me. One of our favorite locations was a park near our home. We could walk there. Giant oak trees shaded picnic tables situated on green, hilly knolls. We'd put our sack lunches on a picnic table and my mother would say, "Let's go swing." She'd exclaim, "Let's go really high!" I remember the dip in my stomach when I'd plummet down from that vast blue sky on those days with my mother. I loved to hear my mother laugh. I loved that she liked to swing too. Eventually, she'd make her way back to the picnic table, I could see her leaning back, elbows on the table, her face tipped up toward the sun.