Two syllables

Ever have one of those days that you're so grateful you have leftover chicken in the fridge that isn't too old to eat, and you have some raw shredded cabbage in there too so you can dip the chicken and the cabbage in blue cheese dressing and that's supper?

Yeah. 

This has not been a banner year pour moi. But I keep climbing because Jesus is with me and I know he's got this. But dang it, sometimes my grip is slipping and it's all I can do to hang on by one brittle fingernail. I keep hearing something faint, muffled. Jesus is speaking but I'm whining and carrying on so much I can't really hear him. Two syllables. "Hang on," I suppose, since that's what I'm trying desperately to do and I'm banking on his help. Because, really, I am a 98-pound weakling with no climbing skills. But the more I try to hang on, the sweatier my hands get and the fingernail is ripping through. It's only in that last breath when I'm sliding into the abyss that I realize he hasn't been saying "hang on."