When you are stripped down to the rocks of your soul, when the waves rise and beat mercilessly against the shore...the calm lake of ease has left and we find ourselves weak, worn out, threadbare. Poverty has many forms, just as does strength.
The real challenges of life come after the storm is gone. The stillness bears down, unrelenting. The sun insists on coming up and going down. The moon rolls its pocked face around again. It seems like nothing will ever change. The world keeps going by. Plans are sought, but slip through fingers and fall short. Feet are plundered, swollen, red with fire. Sleep comes quickly but then mocks at the darkness. My ugly crags expose themselves. I hurt those that I love. I cannot help it.
Heaven and hell run a hot race. The Prince of the power of the air would like to defeat me, to cause me to lay down my sword at his feet. If he could destroy me, he would. But he also knows if he kills me, my soul will give him no satisfaction as it beats a hasty retreat to victory. Better to leave me here, to try and soil God's work in me. To prove wrong the truths that have kept my paths straight, that have defied what is natural in me.
As I age and see more clearly my own heart, I know more fully that my works do not save me. My goodness is an illusion. When the wind and the rocks pierce me through, when there is no strength left, when this frail flesh fails and the dragon points his dagger to deliver the death stroke, my Champion throws himself in the way. Death is swallowed up in victory. At the end of days and when the last fight is fought, the dragon does not rise again, does not win as in the horror tales. For though he gives it his all, he was defeated long ago by the only perfect One who stood in my place. Sleep sweet tonight.
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