 So please, you're just going to have to show me how to live. Please, God. That was my first plea for help. A short prayer it was, if I can't die, then show me how to live. But it opened up much brighter days when my sister then would come into the bedroom and open the drapes, sit me up in the wheelchair, wheel me to the living room and park my chair in front of a music stand, much like this one, and on it she would plop a big Bible.