This Warrior Is Still a Child
“The Spirit you received does not make you slaves, so that you live in fear again; rather, the Spirit you received brought about your adoption to sonship. And by him we cry, ‘Abba, Father.’”
—Romans 8:15 (NIV)
Have you ever had a season when life was going really well—everything seemed to be falling into place? You felt secure. Maybe a little confident you could handle whatever came next.
I know I did. After all, I was a warrior—standing tall in my armor—my shield of faith, my sword. Maybe even smugly thinking, Nothing can touch me now. I had no idea how those words were about to be tested.
Most of my posts in Hope in the Journey are reflections of some of the toughest seasons of life—how in hindsight I can see how my Good Shepherd ordered my steps. How He went before me and brought me through to some incredible conclusions.
This post is different. I am living it in “real time.”
Tuesday had all the makings of a perfect day. All was well with my world.
Until the telephone call at 10 a.m.
Someone I loved more than life was being CareFlighted to the hospital, and within hours, what had begun as a crisis was becoming even more frightening.
The days that followed included tests, diagnosis, and uncertainty, along with moments of fear and tears. But clinging to my belief that God was in control—that He was there—I found the strength to keep going.
My faith held—sometimes by what felt like only a thread—but it held. The warrior had joined the battle.
Then came Monday morning. The day of the surgery.
I woke up at three o’clock in the morning. Almost immediately, the war began. The peace and faith I had clutched for the past six days seemed to vanish beneath the fear and anxiety.
My first thoughts were about the surgery itself—the risks, the frightening possibilities, all the things that could go wrong. I prayed. I read Scripture and played inspirational songs.
It helped. The gift of peace returned, and I was able to doze.
The weary warrior was still standing—but not for long. Arrows came from a different direction, piercing her armor as the attacks became personal.
I desperately wanted to be at the hospital before the surgery. But because of my disabilities, getting there meant depending on someone else at a time when everyone was already carrying so much.
The taunts struck the place where I was most vulnerable.
You are too much of a burden. You will just be in the way. You don’t belong there. Make it easier on the others. They already have enough fear and anxiety to deal with.
And as if those thoughts weren’t enough, guilt joined the fray, and I began chastising myself for having them at all. I kept repeating to myself, This is NOT about you! It’s NOT about you!
Someone I loved was facing major surgery. All my thoughts and prayers should be focused on that—not me.
In spite of my repeated attempts to push them away, the taunts kept coming like a swarm of angry bees.
Then I remembered what Scripture tells us to do with thoughts like these:
“…bringing into captivity every thought to the obedience of Christ.” — 2 Corinthians 10:5 (KJV)
Taking them captive.
I had never really thought about those words before. Taking something captive is battle language. It suggests a struggle. Resistance. Something that does not surrender willingly.
And neither did those thoughts.
For four hours, I fought. I prayed. I reminded myself of what I knew to be true. I took one thought captive only to have another come charging in behind it.
By the end of those four hours, I was exhausted. The warrior had fought so hard to stay strong that even her armor had become heavy.
And then I remembered—
Deep inside that armor, this warrior is still a child.
And when the battle leaves that child weary, her Father simply says, Come.
Years ago, I attended a seminar led by Dr. Phil McGraw. During the seminar, he talked about his nine-month-old son. He explained that he didn’t love that baby because of anything the child could do for him. His son didn’t have to accomplish anything, prove anything, or earn his daddy’s love.
He loved him simply because he was his son. And because he was his son, his daddy would do anything for him.
That Monday morning, I remembered that my Abba Father loved me simply because I was His child.
Then Dr. McGraw asked us to do something I never forgot.
Close your eyes. Picture God sitting in a big, comfortable easy chair. See Him beckoning you to come to Him. Climb into His lap and feel His arms wrap around you.
I am His child. He is my Abba Father. My Daddy.
That picture still comforts me during times like today.
That four-hour battle against the barrage of thoughts had been won. Four hours of fighting had left me drained. I could take off the armor that had become so heavy, drop my sword, and rest for a while.
I knew there would be more battles ahead. I just didn’t know how soon—or how difficult the next one would be.
Five days later, as I write these words, the news I had prayed I would never hear has come.
Looking back, Monday’s four-hour battle almost seems like a stroll in the park.
It is time to put the armor back on and pick up my sword. A new and much more difficult battle lies ahead.
This warrior has been knocked down. The child deep inside this armor is running home to her Father, climbing into His lap, and for a little while, letting His arms wrap around her.
And He will restore my strength, hand me my armor and sword, and send me back out to face this new battle.
I don’t know what the days ahead will bring. But I know where to run when the battle gets rough, when I grow tired, or when I fall down.
Home. To my Daddy’s arms.
If you, too, are weary from fighting your battles, if your armor has grown too heavy, remember the child deep inside your armor.
You know where to run.
Home. To your Daddy’s arms.
Leave a Reply