Your day isn't a survival show

There's a narrator in your head, and he thinks you're on a survival show. Made it through breakfast. Holding on. One more hour. He talks low and serious all day, like the camera's on you in a snowstorm. You don't hear it as commentary. You hear it as the truth.

A person stuck in an emergency eventually goes hunting for relief. And the relief you know best is shaped like a cigarette. That breathless voice is a leftover. The cigarette staged a little crisis every time it wore off, then strolled in as the rescue. The story wears you out faster than the day ever could.

Now tell the same day flat. You ate breakfast. You answered some messages. A call ran long, then ended. Dinner. Dark outside. Couch. No snowstorm anywhere. God isn't hovering over a disaster zone. He's right there in the plain hours with you. Every event survives. Only the emergency disappears.

Tonight, tell someone about your day with no survival words allowed. No made it, no hanging in there. Just what happened. Then hand Him the evening. Lord, stay with me in the ordinary. You're not getting through a life anymore. You're having one.