The Weapon of Battle is Prayer

I'm standing in a room, dimly lit.  Across the room, I see my husband Benjamin, walking through a door with no window.  He turns to look at me, smiles, then continues through.  A bright, comforting light briefly fills the room as the door closes behind him.  Just like that, he -- and the door -- are gone.  I am gripped by a sadness I cannot put to words.  My chest aches.

A moment later, another light fills the room, so I turn to look. It is similar to the light of the door Ben took, but not quite the same  - it lacks the warmth, the comfort.  To my side, there is a double entryway through which the light is streaming.  It's an unnatural light -- not quite daylight, not quite bulb light.  I cannot see the doors.  There's a distant murmur, sounding somewhat like people talking.  I walk that way, drawn by the light.

At the doorway I pause.  Just through the door is a table.  On the tabletop are Bibles and crosses.  As I step through the doorway I see someone who seems familiar running toward me, hands out for an embrace, face twisted into a strange smile.  As they arrive to embrace me, they turn into a strange mist.  I am enveloped by this mist.  It's warm and comforting for a moment -- like that feeling you get when you are cold and then sit in your warm car.  But, it becomes mildly uncomfortable.  It feels like humidity, like something you can't shake off.

The murmur is more distinct now.  There are people talking here.  I cannot quite make out words, but I can tell by tone of voice they are grumbling.  They are angry.  They are wailing in sadness.  Some shake their fists at the sky.  Beyond the people I see a wall.  It's opaque, but it's apparent that something is beyond the wall.  Whatever is beyond is indistinct and unreachable.  The wall has no door. 

I turn back to look at the door through which I came.  Over the top it says "Freedom."  I throw off the strange mist and step back through the door.  There's a strange resistance as the person who embraced me tries to pull me back toward the light.  Her allure is strong, but I resist it.  Back inside the room, I look back.  Above the door it says, "Bitterness."  The open door, the streaming light all beckon me.  It would be ridiculously easy to step through the door again.  The person has their arms out, ready for embrace.

As I examine the original room, I see another door.  It is a single entryway, and the door is closed.  Above the door is the word "Freedom."  I am in such pain, that freedom appeals.  I walk to the door.  It has no lock.  I put my hand on the handle and push.  There is a slight resistance, but after a small amount of effort the door opens.

Beyond the door, it is misty or foggy.  I cannot tell.  The light is dim, like a rising sun over a foggy night.  Of what little I can see, a narrow path of sand winds through a deep green grass.  There are flowers and trees off to the sides of the path, close enough to see, but not close enough to touch.  I can smell something sweet.  Overall, it's quiet.

Someone walks to me and wraps a blanket around my shoulders.  I hear a voice that says, "Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted."  (Matthew 5:4)  I look into the face of my Savior.  In the midst of my mourning, my deep hurtful ache, I feel a moment of peace.

I try to take a step, but I feel heavy and burdened.  My back feels tired.  I don't think I can go on.  I hear the voice again that says, "take my yoke for my burden is light."  (Matthew 11:30)  Again, I feel a moment of peace.

My Savior takes a few steps ahead of me and pauses, looking back.  I take a moment to glance back toward the door through which I walked.  There is no table here.  The sign above the door says "The Wide Path".  (Matthew 7:13)  I can still see the bright light of the other entryway; I can still hear the murmur of voices.  It would be so very easy to go back.

I look back toward the sandy path.  My Savior is standing there, waiting patiently.  I take the two steps to stand beside my Savior.  It's still foggy, I am still aching in grief.  I feel a moment of peace.  My Savior says, "I said you would have troubles in this world, but I have overcome."  (John 16:33)

He waves His hands toward the sky, the fog clears for the moment to reveal a gorgeous mountainside.  The yellow sunshine bathes the mountain in bright, welcoming light.  My eyes follow the path from the mountaintop to the place where I currently stand.  It's rocky, rough, and steep.  I am barefoot and weary.  I cannot imagine walking the path.  I decide it's too much.  My Savior says, "I will never leave you nor forsake you."  (Deuteronomy 31:8)

Just ahead is a cistern with flowing water.  The sound is familiar and comforting.  We walk to it together quietly.  I am very thirsty, and my Savior gestures to the water, so I take a sip.  It's cool and refreshing.  My Savior says, "You will never thirst again."  (John 4:13-14)

As I stand at the cistern, I realize that my aching sorrow is still with me.  But, unlike the doorway of Bitterness, which beget more bitterness, I am feeling moments of peace within sorrow.  Peace feels good and satisfying.

This path is really hard.  The other path was easy. This path offers peace, the other path offers the company of bitterness heaped on bitterness.  I decide I want to chose the harder path, the path of peace.  I look at my Savior and say, "I am afraid."

My Savior says, "look at the birds of the air.  I care for them.  I will care for you."  (Matthew 6:26)

The mist returns.  I cannot see the path anymore, nor can I actually remember what it looked like.  I just remember that it was a hard path.  In faith, I take a step.  And, at my side, is my Savior.

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It is Sunday, 17 April, the year of our LORD 2016.  

You know, I wish I could say, "what a week!"  But, I cannot.  I had this "vision" on Friday morning.  As I lay in bed, struggling to force myself to rise to prepare for Ben's chemotherapy, I saw this in my mind's eye.   I rushed to the computer to write it down before I forgot it.  

Why would I have such a vision?  It's simple.  I have struggled against bitterness all week long.  Anger.  Resentment.  Frustration.  Confusion.

And each and every time I've had to give them over to the LORD.  I can't fight those feelings. They would be ridiculously easy to embrace. To wrap around my mind and soul like a ratty yet familiar old blanket.  They stand at my fingertips, beckoning me to them.  "Come," they say, "be angry."

I reject bitterness.  I don't want it.  Bitterness is like a strange food with a good taste at the start, and a terrible aftertaste that lingers forever.

I have tasted the goodness of the LORD (Psalm 34:8).  I have watched Him move in mighty ways.  I've seen things happen that can ONLY be Him.  I've felt His peace wash over me like a cool waterfall, rinsing away the dirt of the day.  I want the peace that only come from Him (Philippians 4:6-7).

But, I'm human.  Bitterness is an easy treat - well within reach and quite easy to swallow.  But, I don't want it.  Prayer is the power that chases it away.  My human nature tempts it back.  It's a battle waged only in prayer (Ephesians 6:12).

As I sit here tonight, typing this, a few things have changed.  Ben is now taking a stronger pain reliever, a prescription called hydrocodone, and he's still experiencing pain.  He had a Vectibix treatment on Friday morning, and I took a picture of the device they use to administer the drugs.  It's my opening picture today.

Whirrrr.  Whirrrr.  Whirrr.  I will not stop hearing that sound.  Well, actually, I will.  For nearly a year, I could *still* hear the sound of the machine in Ben's hospital room when he had his colon resection in August 2014.  I can't hear it anymore.  I won't hear these anymore either.  One day.

But, I'm still glad I had that day with Ben.  At one of our visits to the Cancer Center, Ben stopped to purchase a salad from the Healing Cup.  Another man was in line beside us.  He pointed at Ben and said, "I'm paying for that man's purchase with mine."  Sweet, blessed goodness.  

I'm not sure why I've shared this strange thing I saw while I lay half-awake, half-asleep.  It feels weird to post, but I'm posting.  If you are tasting the fruit of bitterness, I encourage you to examine the Scripture of the LORD of all creation instead.  Perhaps, that's why I post such strange things.  Someone, somewhere needs it.

So, LORD, I pray that if someone can use my words for their encouragement, strength, or as an antidote to bitterness, that they will accomplish Your task and Your will.  I'm just a child of the King.  My little words are are but a vapor.  Your word will endure forever.    Please touch the hurting heart of whomever is reading this tonight.  Bring healing to their hurt, and roll them up in such loving comfort that they cannot find the words to describe Your amazing presence.

I love You LORD.  I trust You.  I want to walk with You.  Please help me put on a shield against bitterness, and put on the peace that can only come from You.  I love You, LORD.  I love You.  <3

Ephesians 6:16 NASB
¹⁶ in addition to all, taking up the shield of faith with which you will be able to extinguish all the flaming arrows of the evil one.