He Came Back For Me

I’m standing in the middle of a battlefield. Smoke, darkness, echoes of artilleries. But I hear nothing. The battle has ended; our loss is great. Bodies have fallen. Our army in ruins. In the middle of it all, here I stand.

Mortified by the loss—confused, angry, empty-handed, empty-hearted—I’m numb to my core. The silence of devastation paralyzes me. Then I hear it. The first sound.

A hum. A voice, a song. It’s quiet at first. Then more voices join. In minutes, I see an army rise from the dust and ash. Armor and clothes in tatters, but hearts strong and voices triumphant. The army, unphased even though scathed, gathers up the broken and hurting and sings the most beautiful battle lullaby. It’s peaceful, calming, and full of ecstasy. Praise, glory, and victory begin to bounce off the mountain tops, magnifying the sound into an awesome melody. At this sound of 10,000 armies marching in celebration, the enemy army trembles, shakes, panics. What army celebrates after a loss? They quiver. What army marches towards us after defeat? They fear. What kind of army can rise from this death field? They run.

Though the enemy army outnumbers ours by 10,000, they flee. Not at the sight of a weapon or awful defeat. They flee because of a song.

Yet, here I stand. Immovable. Silent. Numb. Watching the army march forward without me. An emptiness hits me like I’ve never felt before.

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Then I opened my eyes. I was in the middle of a worship song when I closed my eyes and this vision came to me. The song ended and I wanted to hear it again, for indeed I felt a depth of emptiness I hadn’t faced before. I was nervous about my trip back to the States because I knew my internal gas light had already come on. And I knew that being Stateside was nothing but endless highways with no gas stations in sight. Always eventful, far from restful.

Normally, I wouldn’t be so negative about it. Normally, I would be having lots of fun and enjoying my window of opportunity in America. Normally, I would be joining the victory song. But I don’t feel normal. I don’t feel like me. It took coming here to finally admit why. I’m bitter at God. I feel left behind. Like in the vision. Not fallen, not defeated, but frozen. Unable to march with the army. They left me there. Standing alone.

And sometimes this is exactly what ministry abroad feels like. (Please note my distinction between “feelings” and what actually is.) The first year or two had immense struggles of its own. I guess I thought each year would be easier. Although this year has been the BEST for the ministry, it’s been the hardest for Kate. It seems the more I pour into the ministry, the more it fills, but the less I have of me. It feels at times that I’m left standing alone. People think I’m strong; courageous; independent. I’m not. At times it felt like I was watching my family march on without me, or my friends leaving me behind. My relationships with people Stateside are the weakest they’ve ever been, and I have few friends outside of the ministry Swaziside.

I’ve told the Lord plenty of times how much I need friendships, fellowship, and for sure a husband. I’ve called out, “What about me?” I watch Him bless the ministry and other people in my life, but I feel robbed of my own blessing. “I’ve given you everything, Lord. When’s my turn?”

So a couple days ago, I went to mass at St. Rose Convent in La Crosse. When it was empty, I crept to the front pews, prayed, and wept. I wanted to figure out where my joy had gone. I wanted to revisit that vision. I wanted to know why I was left behind.

When I closed my eyes and pictured myself standing alone in the heaps of darkness on the battlefield, God put the question back on me as He whispered through the voice in my head: “Why are you alone? Why didn’t you go with the army?”

There it was. An answer hidden in His gentle question. Reminding me that I’m the one who stood there; I didn’t get left. I stayed behind.

“I’m weak,” the answer came quickly. I saw myself standing there, stubbornly frozen. “Because I’m weak,” I confessed. Immediately a man entered my vision. He came to me with concern on his face and took my hand, leading me forward to catch the army. But as we walked, he noticed how weak I really was and lifted me into his arms. Like a girl in her daddy’s arms, he carried me.  All I could think was, “He came back for me. He came back for me.”

We all need to be carried at certain seasons of life, no matter what age, no matter what “strength," and I guess this is mine. We all need a Savior. In my childishness or stubbornness, God lets me vent, feel, cry, and beat his chest with ungratefulness and accusations…and He carries me anyway.

How life-changing to know that we have a God who will ALWAYS come back for us.