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Beautiful Warrior
rebecca@rebeccafussell.com
Enter the scene of life’s battlefield . . .
The scorched ground beneath me begs for relief. And the earth is not the only one longing for a respite. All of those around me are beaten down by the intensity of the day.
The brilliant sun rests directly above us for what feels like hours. My shield, soaking up its rays like a horseshoe in the furnace, burns me. But I don’t dare let go. That trusty shield is my greatest recourse against the Enemy’s fiery darts whizzing past me in every direction.
In such a fierce battle, you expect to ward off darts from the Enemy before you. Not from the side. . . from your own.
I hate to say it, but some of the darts originate from behind and to the sides of me where fellow comrades take aim.
The latest victim drops her shield and gasps in disbelief at her wound. Her knees buckle in agony, not only from the arrow’s penetration, but also from the sting to her heart as it dawns on her that this gash came from within the camp. On purpose.
Once her shield drops, then the wounded one is open game.
Vulnerable. Susceptible to the wiles and whimsy of the evil schemes. The Enemy doesn’t care who initiated the blow.
The minute a shield lowers he smells weakness, and the arrows come like hounds after blood.
I know. It’s happened to me.
If it hadn’t been for members of my squadron coming to my aid, who knows what would have happened. I guess that explains my passion, not only to fight the fight, but to look out for the fellow soldiers around me.
The battle has escalated in recent days. Lately, I look around at those I love. Those faithful to the cause. Those determined to endure to the end. Many are being hit from every direction.
All I know to do is hold tight to my shield as I run to their aid. I slam our shields upright in the dirt to form a tiny garrison as I assess the damage. I wipe the brow and offer a drink from my canteen. Then I do my best to stabilize the wound.
Then suddenly, all around me others loyal to the Cause are shouting out warnings, “Soldier, duck! Incoming!” Once team members have spotted us, they rush to our side and stand guard to protect us. My heart beats with pride to be part of this brave group.
As more help arrives, I grab my shield and scurry across the field to offer the same comfort to another, ever mindful of those beautiful, courageous warriors who did the same for me.
Sometimes though, the weight of the day makes it hard to breathe. I find a big rock, and slide down its side to the dirt below. With darts flying in every direction, I hide behind my own shield. Tears bubble up from the pit of my soul.
I am weary and overwhelmed at the pain of my friends. My water bottle is empty. I’ve given all its contents away to those who needed it more. And then I ask myself, "Is this worth it?"
But the question doesn’t linger long.
My teeth grit. My lips press together. My fist bangs into the ground. Through the swirling dust around me, I breathe these words of resolve to my Commander in Heaven, “By your grace, I will not give up! I will not quit! The cargo is too precious. The price too costly. I will pick up the sword of Your Word and my shield of faith. I don’t know how, but I will fight on!”
About that time, my good friend notices me huddled to the side.
She dashes to my aid, forces her shield upright into the ground close to mine, then rests herself against the rock, too. Blowing out a weary breath, her dusty face turns towards mine. “Are you alright?”
Without waiting for my response—she already knows the answer—she says, “Here, I thought you could use a little of this.”
From her side, she pulls out her own precious canteen, and to my lips flows the ice-cold drink my dry soul so desperately needs.
My strength begins to renew, but not just because of the water.
No. It’s much more than that.
Someone saw me, exhausted and spent. Someone willing to bear the burden of the wounded along-side me. Someone to help me lift mine. We’re in this together.
And so it is on life’s battlefield. We get weary, yes, but we will dig deep into God’s word. We will look up. We will pray. We will encourage. We will not quit.
I will accept your help, and I will offer mine to you.
Together we will fight the good fight.
We will endure hardness as the beautiful, courageous warriors of Jesus Christ.
(II Timothy 2:1-4).
P.S. You know we win, right?
I walk. They ride. Bicycles that is.
Her name was Beatrix—Bea for short.
I can laugh about it now—quite hysterically in fact. I should’ve known, but I didn’t.
Happy New Year ~ almost! You know what that means…
Do you know what today is?
Years ago, Ronnie, Chandler and I piled into the car ready for a fun weekend away.
Life was hard. Money was short. And sleep was shorter still.
Mother or not, this post is for you.
I didn’t really have time. But this time, it didn’t matter.
The rubber tourniquet squeezed my bicep preparing my vein for the prick.