Fighter to Farmer to King
I don’t want to die.
I don’t want you to die.
Horrible happens
time after time,
and we ask, “Why, why?”
but then
we
make it happen.
We rage against being done wrong,
we rant that someone messed up the song,
while we sharpen our notes
to use as knives for their backs.
We don’t want to die
in body or heart or reputation,
so we fight, fight.
If someone’s going to die,
it might as well not be me.
Weapons drawn, defend, defend,
does attack count as forethought defense?
We act like they are the other -
would we speak of God as we speak of our brother?
Do we kiss our mothers with these mouths,
the ones we use to profane the Father’s house?
How long can this go on?
Forever, it seems.
So far, at least.
Everything pants with exhaustion,
every breath a battle.
A new occupation is in order.
Here we lay down our weapons
on the anvil, the altar, to be beaten out of shape
and into form,
to then take them up as our cross-shaped plows.
As they drag on the ground,
tilling the soil around us,
we’re each earning a crown.
A good king must know
the worth of the crown he wears,
else he will not be strong enough to bear it.
Learning a new trade is heavy,
becoming a new sort of person is weary work.
View your cross -
the weight of that understanding bows you down,
the pain of the strain
against your insistent flesh.
Now see the end of the road -
the cross hits the ground for good,
buried in dust.
Feel the strength you have gained in your toil,
how it straightens you
to a regal stature.
The weight of the crown
is now bearable
because of the weight of the cross.
See behind you -
the row you have plowed,
seeds dropped along the way.
The fruit that is borne
from your walk
is making more kings and queens,
instead of dethroning them
as the fruit of the beginning did.
Background:
A couple of snippets merged together birthed this piece.
Our crosses take so many shapes in our individual lives - yours might be very different from mine, but I don’t doubt it is equally heavy. Don’t give up - it might feel impossible at times, as if you will never overcome, but the choice to continue anyway, to turn the fight against the true enemy instead of our brother, is itself an overcoming that heralds the grandest victory to come.
You are not your struggles, your temptations, your failings, but who you become is dependent on how you face them.
May your family resemblance with the Father be undeniable.
May people see you and see a glimmer of His face.
May they hear your voice and hear the whisper of His voice underneath your words.
You are blessed.
Maybe you feel weak - good, this is a place where weakness is the precursor, the open door, to new strength.
Welcome, welcome.
Wishing you goodness without end,
Jess