This Warrior.

"For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against...the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces in the heavenly realm." Ephesians 6:12

4 cell phones to the office, simply out of belligerence. Freshman honors students in four corners, like dunces, for the second day in a row, still not working, still goofing off. Junior Honors student leaving in the middle of class, in no anger, nor explanation. Administration calling and tracking parking spaces to see what went amiss. The "f" word use profusely, 3 more students removed to ISS, remarking to administrators "She's crazy!" And I put my head down on my desk.

Defeated.

I am full of angst. Feeling completely abused, disrespected, and frustrated. At my wits end.

I wrote two months ago about piercing the dark. Full of ferocious empowerment for the gospel at my school. I live it, I talk it, I breathe it, I push it. Just last week I had out my projects from Bible class at Calvin Christian, displaying their work about the Passion week and Pauls' missionary journeys. This week, I explained the B.C. -- A.D. breakdown, and everything in history revolving around Jesus, all centering on Him, the cruxic of all time and history. Then the next class, I spoke about slavery, singing aloud the sweet anthem of "Swing Low, Sweet Charriot" with depth of explanation of the story of Elijah, the need for hope and heaven. I furthered it with the Moses connection of Harriet Tubman, and the slaves needing the empathy that comes from Jesus suffering. I communed today about Mormans and Jesus and Truth and persecution and the difference faith makes.

The gospel is presented everyday in my class. In my life, but also in my blatant words and assumed connections of Jesus and stories and life. He is real, he is present, and he is powerful in F202.

One of my favorite songs, the song I always pick up and play and sing to at my piano is "The Warrior Is A Child" by Twila Paris. Its lyrics read:

Lately I've been winning battles left and right
But even winners can get wounded in the fight
People say that I'm amazing
Strong beyond my years
But they don't see inside of me
I'm hiding all the tears

They don't know that I go running home when I fall down
They don't know who picks me up when no one is around
I drop my sword and cry for just a while
Cuz deep inside this armor
The warrior is a child

Today this Gospel Warrior came home and collapsed. Today, this warrior was sustained by no armor, by no might, by no power. I just simply dropped my sword and fell down.

But I didn't realize it until now. I didn't realize the spiritual depth and connection of my awful day, until I ended it looking up verses, trying to re-arm myself for the fight and refocus from my darkness. And I thought: I wonder if today has less to do with each individual incident and and each student and coarse word and harsh interaction, and if instead, today was a spiritual battle. If today was the presence of darkness, the spiritual forces, fighting against the Gospel Message in my room (Ephesians 6:12).

So this wounded warrior sits, reflecting and praying. Defeated, but arming. Reading:

"Put on the full armor of God so you can take your stand against the devils schemes..."

And I dig into the Word, "so that when the day of evil comes [I] may be able to stand [my] ground, and after [I] have done everything, to stand" (v 13). I search around for my belt of truth, my breastplate of righteousness, my gospel of peace, helmet of salvation and sword of the spirit. And most importantly right now, my shield of faith -- extinguishing the flaming arrows of the evil one (v. 14-17).

I end tonight, I end this battle, with prayer (v.18), and searching scriptures for my armor. My classroom needs a mighty warrior. My school needs a mighty warrior. My heart needs to be a mighty warrior, fitted with the armor of God, standing against the devils schemes.

"Finally, be strong in the Lord and in his mighty power." Ephesians 6:10

~~

P.S. Thank goodness for Lamentations 3:22-24!

The Difference A Wife Makes.

"Xerxes didn't need what 100 concubines could give him. He needed a wife...."

Four years had brought kingdom growth and decline, decrees made and established, and beautiful women to entertain and entrance. But Xerxes remembered his wife and something different inside him felt the emptiness remain.

I have often wondered the difference for men in pornography... and relationship. This is such an industry, that my perplexion is distraught, as well as peaked. It seems all society realizes that women long and crave and need relationship, but it often paints that men... don't.

But scripture points out, and Xerxes captures:

They do.

The reference, the verses, the chords of his emotions all point to:

The difference a wife makes.

He had concubines and harems galore. He had beautiful women, dancers, and women exposed. But something in his heart longed for me. Something in his heart felt the absence. Something in his soul needed a friend, a lover, a companion. His spirit craved the depth of having the one person, the intimate one.

The one who is: wife.

~

*Quote from Esther study by Beth Moore

Held All Of Me.

"All I want is a man strong enough to hold my hand."

I sat in the car weeping, driving Kate and Kelsey back from a day in Charleston. My heart wrenching, reminiscing about an experience a couple weeks before. I had told a guy about the awful experiences of that year, and all he did was stare back down at as plate, wordless and awkward.

Tears tumbled down my cheeks like Victorian Falls, my breath hiccuping in-between. And my words were thought and sovereign: "All I need is a man strong enough to hold my hand. He doesn't have to have the right things to do, or the right things to say, just sit with me and hold my hand while I go through it." My friends listened intently, with earnest, and the words trailed with me for months of roads to come.

Mark and I sat on his couch, side by side. I was clear-eyed, but thinking. I knew he needed to know. He needed to receive the all of me, the inmost of me. So I looked at him and said, "I don't know if you already know this, but my mom died."

He was quiet, compassionate, listening. His arms came around, pulling me close, encircling me. I could feel the warmth of his body, his tenderness like soft caress, his emotions meeting and caring for mine.

I explained parts of the story, details of the day, the unraveling years since then. His hands smoothed my shoulders, his fingers softening away my tears, his heart listening to mine.

I prayed for a man strong enough to hold my hand. But the Lord gave me more. A man who:

Held all of me.

The Fat Pants.

Ladies have them. We all have a stash. That pile in the closet you refuse to look at, yet find unable to ignore. Its the "fat pant" stack. That size too big, or two too big. The ones you had to buy once, but refused to admit to. The layers of fabric wider than your will.

I looked again at the "fat pants." The glare of my hatred full of demise. No. Not them.

There is a a new meaning. A new perspective I find myself in. Revealed under a microscope labeled not my own.

Middle school consumed me, battling the fears. The tremors of worry, the weight of weight. Erupting skin and altering figure found me full of heaviness both inside and out. The months of summer, between seventh and eighth grade, striped off pounds and regained my self-esteem.

And now I look at my fat pants. The years of struggle well-behind. The confidence gained and fought for, protected and pursued. Striving to be me. And trust the body of me. Not in its perfection, but in its "me" and loving and learning to be okay with that -- "me."

The pile holds new meaning. New thoughts. New perceptions. It was always the struggle, the confidence, to find and defend the figure of me. And be comfortable and love the physical, me. But now I find myself in his love and arms and opened anew. Afresh to his knowing, and his knowing the "fat pants" me too.

Its not about me. Not anymore, just about me. Its about the fat pants, and how I want to be "me" without the fat pants, for He. I want Mark to love me, to find me, to seek me, to know me. To understand the girl of me, the woman of me, the physical of me. Without the fat pants. And beyond the fat pants.

He says nothing. He loves the deepest, the heart of me.

But I feel it inside. Knowing again and seeing this struggle in me. And work to defend my honor and self and body, not to him but to me. Its strange that I wrestle, this same tune again. In a whole different light, in my perspective of the perception of He.

Its more the struggle of me

Not of He

And though he would never say

I still feel the struggle

In me.

The Fat Pants.

Dinner With Vashti.

I think we would be swirling wine in our glasses, staring off into thoughtful gazes as we struck up conversation. An air of Persian class and banter and gold and finery would dance all around, like an exotic display of Arabian royalty and grandeur.

Her poise would be prompt, sharp, aristocratic. Yet I don't know if her eyes would hold the look for forlorn, withdrawn, shame, or demise.

She is a mystery.

And I am Diane Sawyer, Oprah Winfrey, Katie Couric, and the woman-next-door all rolled into one. A journalist at half, a friend at best.

We find her in the pages of Esther. Her beauty striking, probably dark arched brows, bronzed face, chocolate eyes, thin wide lips, sprawling lashes, elevated cheekbones, and hair as luscious as the Persian gods themselves - long and shiny and falling in cascading splendor. She is the wife of the King, the greatest woman in the land. The female remarked by all, known by all, and A-listed by all. She is Angelina Jolie.

She is The Queen.

And now, she sits across from me, and I spiral through thoughts, perceiving questions, and wondering her mystery. Who is she? Whose daughter was she beloved? Whose friend was she companioned? Whose mother was she embraced? Who is the woman behind the veil? The Veil of the Queen, the veil of her secrets, the veil of her betrayal.

It was customary for her to throw parties. To exchange the lavishness of the Kingdom. A great banquet was hosted by Xerxes, her husband of the royal throne. "Couches of gold and silver on mosaic pavement of porphyry, marble, mother-of-pearl, and other costly stones" dotted the grounds of the garden, itself robed in silk and linens and servers throughout (1:6-8). And she held her own affair, the richness of the palace dancing with light cast from reflection of gold.

We sit at dinner, her and I, and a lean forward, looking into the dance of the history she beholds, and ask her about that day, about that night, about the extravagance. She looks away, as if in memory, as if hearing and replaying the sounds of the lyres and harps and timbres and dancing and intoxicated laughter. She tells me of her giggles, of the women all rushing about amid the castle, each doused in myriads of the finest oils and spices, their skin warmed to the scent, and their Persian maids ruminating at each beck and call. It was a flurry of activity, of chatter, of color, of silk. Only the grandest fabrics present, only the greatest of guests invited.

She remembers it well, her foreplay to the evening. Her own personal dance of pulling together the means of her royal affair. She seems to love this moment, to dance in it too.

Then I ask her about the entrance, about the attendants demand.

And her face casts shadow. Her looks grow gaunt. Her tension immediately snapped. I'm trying to understand her life behind The Veil, and read into the shadow. Is it regret I see? Remorse? Anger? Contention? Retribution? Or is it hurt? Brokeness? Longing? Or loss of love?

For the King had turned his face from her. Her Lover, her Love. Her other part of the whole. Surely, he had women gushing to be his own, and laid with many, but none was she. None was Vashti. None was the wife as she. None was Queen.

The moment was caught in her eye, stark and startling. Then gone. Ripped and removed. As if she wanted the reminisce to lay dead. Away in the grave.

My silence is poignant. Waiting. Letting the flick of all emotions settle, the flame calm to kindle. To strike when the fire gave way to ashes.

They smoldered, her emotions solemn and her face turned away. She remarked his words, his command, asking her to flaunt her self. To make gestures and dances and expose what she beholds.

It is this moment. This moment that I surge into. Every beat of my journalist heart wants each detail, the mesmerizing script only she knowns and can behold. I linger forward, wondering if the wait will open her soul, will open the words of her to me. My fingers grip the pen and feel tension mounting, willing her to unravel.

But she stares off. Says something about his arrogance, and a line or two about her disgust. Its as if a cement wall rises to protect her shattered soul. Pauses pass and I wait. The she reaches in and speaks forth: the gasping of the crowd, the shocked stares of the attendants, the immediate silence that billowed through the room like a tsunami, rippling through the clinking goblets and music until only absolute stillness and sharp contrast hung like thick judgements in the air.

She had tried to stay, to partake in her own ball, but the exuberance was gone. The party vanished. People swirled, but only to stare. Gazes still fell on her, but only to cast hatred through a glare.

She removed herself, but they had already removed her. From their respect, their awe, their role of her as their Queen. And then worse, he removed her. Her lover, betrayal. His pride his armor; her heart, his stone.

And now here is she. She once exalted. She once Queen.

Her life has turned to quiet corridors. To small gatherings of the friends allowed to see in, the harmen of the King beckoned her way, the women whose husbands have too left them unchained. Her life has turned to darkened rooms, to candles once lit.

I look at her again, and wonder what she sees. A woman once beheld by all, now gossiped by all.

I sip the end of my red wine, and land the goblet down, my fingers encircling the stem and tracing the gold. My journalist pen I set to the side, and lean back, perplexed in my chair, and softened by her tone. Her stare falls downward, her own glass pushed aside too.

She is the institution all men have been decreed to control. She is cast-off, the society removed. She is the one now, all looking to replace.

She is Vashti, the once-was Queen.

Freed for His priorities.

I ramble on and on about my busyness and commitments and being pulled here and there and everywhere.... And more than anything, I think what the truth of the matter is, is that I want so much more of myself than my finite self is able to be.

So then, of course, I turn into self-bantering about how other people can do so much more than me and how I'm just less of an incredible woman...

But alas, there is Truth! I am finite! I am meant for Sabbath! I am meant to do only what God has called and intended me to do -- not everything I seem to want to do or find to do!

Ah, and with this, I smile...

And direct you elsewhere.

For someone has said it much better than I.

Yes, admittedly, I am not the super-hero woman here. :)

I am, woman. Finite. And freed in that.

So read on ahead....

Here

About editing life to be clutter-free, freed for His priorities. I got this posting sent from a friend, and it was everything True and good and holy.

Oh, praise the Lord for friends and bloggers!