What the stranger would write down

From seat 23C, turbulence feels like falling. Your stomach drops and the cup on the tray starts to rattle. From the ground, it's a small plane crossing a clear sky in a straight line. Quitting works the same way. You feel every wobble. The evening you nearly caved. The twenty minutes you argued with yourself on the edge of the bed. Up close, it all feels like falling.

Now imagine a stranger has followed you since you quit, notebook in hand. They can't hear a word inside your head. They only write down what you do. Their whole report fits in one sentence. This person doesn't do that. Those twenty minutes on the bed get one line. Sat a while, then made dinner. From the ground, you're flying straight.

Your inside view reports every bump, and it's honest about how today feels. It's a lousy judge of who you are, because it treats one bump like the whole flight. The cigarette always made its case in there, where nobody could check its math. The stranger knows less than you and still gets it right.

Borrow the stranger's sentence for the next time someone offers. No backstory. No speech. It may feel like overstating your case. It isn't. God has watched the whole flight, every bump included, and He's been holding it steady the entire way. Say it flat, the way the notebook would. I don't do that.