The healing hand held back by the deepened nail

He woke up confused in a hotel room, forgetting briefly where he was and why. It all came flooding back too soon. He wished he hadn't woken up. The night before, he was awash in greatness and bliss and beauty when out of nowhere he had a disturbing vision of himself. Stomach being pumped too late in a sickly green emergency room with flickering fluorescent lights. Dying by his own hand. When he saw this, he thought nothing of it. But lying in the hotel room alone 12 hours later, he felt fear. Fear of what he saw. Fear of his lack of fear the night before. He glanced at the night stand beside him and reached to open the drawer. The Gideons were on top of things. Was this going to be one of those moments? A moment of weakness and desperation? Of kneeling and weeping? Of white lights and Christ's blood and euphoria? He opened the book randomly. He looked to the ceiling and said something along the lines of "This is your last chance, man. What do you got?" He let his finger fall on the page.

1 Chronicles 27:30

Obil the Ishmaelite was over the camels, Jehdeiah the Meronothite was over the donkeys.

Without looking up, he extended his middle finger and offered it to the ceiling. "Thanks. The italics really drive home the message." He tossed the book back in the drawer and began his day.