A bad day.
A day that is a month. A day that you are a red ball of fire burning everyone around you. You yell too much. You talk too loud. You have fists, not hands. Your stomach is a tight, tight knot.
You want to be alone.
You are limbs flying in different directions making contact with all the wrong stuff. You are afraid that you will hurt yourself, or someone else, and you wish--oh God, you wish you could be tightly swaddled like a newborn, the blanket a temporary womb keeping you safe from your own thrashing.
Don't talk and you won't say something regrettable. Don't move and you won't do anything bad. Go to bed. It's too early for bed, but you go anyway because it will keep your house from turning into one big crime scene. Don't do anything. Don't read don't pray don't think.
Breathe, and soon your very breathing is a vertical line to Him. You need Him. Your breath is an invocation. You are burning sand in the desert. You are hard, and cracked and dry. You thirst.
Your heart begs for His presence.
Your exhale reaches for Him--spirit arms groping in the dark, fumbling upon His presence. Having found Him you hold on like your life depends on it, and it does. Your yearning cries out, "God hold me. Please don't let me go."
He becomes the air you take into your lungs, and somehow you know--you know that you are saved. You are joined, breath of His child holding on to God, breath of God, embracing you, His child. His breath is rain on the parched, white-hot spaces that is you.
Sometimes breathing is all you've got.
Sometimes, it's all you need.