When I look out upon the world I often can't help but see a barren landscape. Looking at the people I come across in my daily life I often see the a pain they can't shake, wounds that won't heal, and troubles that simply won't pass. I see it in the way they treat the people they don't know and then how they behave with those they do. In the defenses, the paranoia, and the through the facades they build I can see the scars of a life spent fighting off the vultures.
This is a part of life in what I call "no man's land" that I never have gotten use to. The pain that floats just beneath the surface is almost palpable. When I'm around a person with especially raw wounds the pain almost has that wretched scent of gangrene. It deteriorates the very nature of it's victim. It strips away the humanity and leaves nothing for its victim to replace their loss with. In the end they are more zombie like than anything else... barely alive and yet still going through the motions.
This is what the enemy does to people. It is a tormentor that knows no limits to what agony it can inflict upon it's victims. By delivering blows that the prey can't heal on their own the enemy makes wounded animals out of human beings. They know the pain is real, they can feel the suffering in their minds and bodies, yet the wounds can't be seen. This is the slow death the enemy offers to people.
Day after day I find my foxhole to duck into. Peeking over the filthy edge all I see is a broken world all around me. The dead and dieing walk all around me. Their numbed faces fake smiles as they pass one another. But the smell of infected wounds can't be hidden. And I should know, I have plenty of my own.
Setting in my foxhole I know I have a secret. Tucked under my shirt I have a cure for my own disease. From the pages of this weapon I find strength to endure. From these living words my wounds are healed. Setting in my foxhole I know I have something I can't hide.
Looking over the ledge of my foxhole I can see in the distance another head pop up over the ledge of a distant foxhole. Through the crowd of wounded souls I can spot another person just like me peeking out over this barren wasteland. And in an instant we both duck back down and out of sight.
I look over the ledge once again, this time in another direction. Again I see another person just like me peering out from yet another foxhole. And once more we make eye contact just before ducking back down and out of sight.
Day after day I have hid in my foxhole. I have watched wounded souls wander past without giving it much thought. I all honesty it just hurt to much to look at them. But now I realize I'm not alone. Looking out of my foxhole I can see the field around me is dotted with distant foxholes. Like gophers we peek out of our little comfort zones. Day after day I had hid in my foxhole... never noticing all of them.
I know I have a weapon, a tool, a cure... and suddenly I realize so do all of those other ones just like me... hid in their foxholes. So now all I can see is a world full of people just like me. Hiding in their foxholes they hold onto the living word as they duck down and out of sight. But why? Why do we hide in our foxholes?
Now when I look out upon this world I see a landscape dotted with foxholes. And all I can think of is what it would be like if we came up... over the top... into sight... word in hand... ready to fight.
"Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be frightened, and do not be dismayed, for the Lord your God is with you wherever you go."
Joshua 1:9
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