Plastic Swords

This was a very randomly evolving story that I began writing this evening. I like to put my thoughts into pictures–sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t–but below is how I picture my constant battle of surrendering to God vs. being captive by the world.

I hear the words of God fading from my mind
As life takes the forefront
My problems and worries brandish their plastic swords
They’re gonna fight to make this damsel stay distressed

In my stupidity I cry, “Woe is me! Woe is me!”
“My troubles are too big!”
“My life is too complicated!”
“No one could possibly rescue me from this mess!”

Plastic swords, now elongated
Maybe they turn into wood
Maybe they just say “Made in China”

The anthem of secularity rings loud and clear
I feel its bass beat beneath my feet
It’s catchy, it’s comfortable
I watch as heads nod in rhythm to the lies

But the bass gets louder and the ground shakes
My “foundation” crumbles beneath my feet
My little soldiers with their plastic swords flee in trepidation

Face to face with life
And “my” army abandons me

I can put up no defense
I surrender
I fall facedown
Hands stretched out as I plant my face in the dirt
Knees curled in

Suddenly the whole earth is quaking
But no longer from the carnal melody
I brush away a muddy tear
And dare to open my eyes

I see before me a Warrior, mighty and strong
Behind Him an army of soldiers who are unafraid to fight for righteousness
Their glory is not in the strength of a man, nor in the beauty of a woman
Their love is not limited by the condition in which it is received
Their power has no “off” button

And as I sob in my sorry state
The majestic Warrior reaches out a scarred hand
And lifts my weak frame back to its feet
I still tremble, but His grip is strong

I steal a glance behind me
And see the plastic swords laying in a heap
I turn around to face the glorious armor, with strength behind it
And in my humiliation I almost turn away
But I feel a firm hand reach for mine

I look in His eyes
Can “trust” be put into words?
For I saw its definition in His gaze
“Trust Me,” He whispered

Gentle wind began to blow, tousling my hair
I turn my head again, and see my abandoned pile of swords
Being collected by vicious creatures
In their eyes was Death
And my swords were being recycled into a bin
To be used for the next vulnerable victim 

Maybe this seems like a fantasy story. But where is your army? Who is coming to your rescue?

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