Breath

Every breath is a gift, a life unto itself. Every breath has a beginning, a middle, and an end. At the inhale, I anticipate. Soon, I will feel the fullness of air in my lungs; soon I will taste joy. When I breathe deeply, with my feet planted on the floor, drawing air in through my nose for as many beats as it takes to fill my lungs to capacity, my diaphragm extends, and I feel a stationary excitement. My body is motionless, but life awakens within. In a beat or two, I will know the totality of this breath. I will be at the mountaintop. I will hold there and relish the climax, exult in the nourishment my body will siphon. It is more beautiful at the peak of breath than I can articulate, and there is little time. For the very air that brings anticipation and joy will soon burn in my chest, violent to escape. And though I want the bliss of the full breath to carry on and on, so that I can explore the beautiful space around it, I cannot keep it; I can only pause there for a moment. The breath must leave. So, I turn the breath, trying to slow its departure. I try to take the same number of beats it took to fill my lungs. But the used air fights to escape with haste. The breath is dying. It is a tide drawn forth by a power I cannot control, but only participate in. Every breath is a gift, a life unto itself.

Today, a friend sits with her brother, wrestling with the reality that he may not live through this day. I don’t know about his breathing because I suspect a mechanism controls his inhaling and exhaling now. He has suffered greatly for months. His family agonizes. I’ve never met the man, but my heart aches for all of them.

The final breaths of a dying person lack the rhythms of one blessed with reliable health. A weak, sharp inhale may come, then much later a labored exhale. An unnatural amount of time may pass, such that loved ones wring their hands, sure that they’ve witnessed a final breath. But no! Again, a surprising inhale, like a gasp, and then an irregular release, as though a barrel weighs down the chest of the departing, preventing steady breathing. This may go on for hours. Even a dying person who welcomes eternity tries to extend breath for as long as possible. But breath must make its return, and try as we might to postpone its release, it will accomplish its purpose.

Mostly, we travel through our days breathing shallowly. We inhale just enough through our mouths as our fingers click away at the computer keyboard. We exhale a short sigh, exasperated with a co-worker. Only when we breathe with intent, with focus, will we remember to fill ourselves with an entire dose of nourishing oxygen, to let it live a long, full beat in our lungs, and then to slowly let it go with gratitude. Every breath is a gift, a life unto itself.

Sometimes, when I pray, I plant my feet on the floor, I lay my hands on my knees, palms facing upwards, and I close my eyes. I envision the path of the breath. Sometimes, I remember that I am receiving a precious gift with each inhale. Sometimes, I say thank you. Sometimes, I remember times I have greedily received breath, only to use my gift to reduce another. How dare I ever take a gift and instead of exhaling blessing and gratitude, spew contempt? Forgive me, Father. Every breath is a gift.

I see the path of my breath journeying in anticipation of the pinnacle, then standing high for a moment, like a gymnast’s stick-straight headstand on a balance beam, and then I see breath returning, making its way down to the end, the breath succumbing to some kind of ethereal gravity. Thank you for that breath, Father. May I have another? I ask with my palms up and expectant. While we’re at it, may my friend’s brother have another? May he have many more? Please, Lord? And if not, please breathe into her your comfort, that special kind that touches every cell, every fiber, that kind that we can feel but cannot understand. I trust that you have already begun that work. Thank you for these breaths. Every breath is a gift.

What would you like me to do with these gifts, Father? How can I take these gifts and bring attention and glory to Jesus? Place your purpose upon me, through my palms, through my inhale, through my motionless intention here in this moment as I hold, hold, hold, and now, through my release; place your plan on my spirit, your spirit in me. Lead me through this journey; give me grace to see when it’s time to ascend, to rejoice, and then to turn and face the burning exhale.

Every breath is a gift.