A word of explanation: Recently I spotted this meme on Facebook:
And for reasons I can’t fully explain, it got under my skin. So I decided to write the rest of this warrior’s story for today’s post.
She stood tall before the Evil One, her fierce determination giving steel to her spine. Her hand rested on the pommel of her sword, relaxed but ready to draw should he try to strike without warning. She knew her blade well, each chip and scratch from numerous battles. But her weapon had served her well in times past, its steel strong and true. The same could be said for her armor, for while it bore the scars of a lifetime of fighting and strife, she knew it would help her weather whatever her foe flung her way.
And what a foe this was! Satan himself. Truth be told, the warrior was a bit disappointed in her adversary. The almost reverent way that others spoke of the Prince of Darkness led her to believe that he would be more intimidating. But now that she actually faced him, she was surprised at how average he was. And he believed a storm was coming? She would embody it. She would be the wind, the rain, the lightning.
But then Satan laughed and mockery shone in his eyes. “You? The storm? Do you really believe that to be true? Why, you’re not even enough of a breeze to bend a sapling!”
The warrior set her jaw, seeing the tempter’s words for what they were. He sought to make her doubt herself, to weaken her with words. It wouldn’t work. She was the storm, and he would regret his mockery.
He sighed, drawing his sword from its sheath. He lazily beckoned with one hand while he used the other to cover a yawn.
The warrior yanked her sword free and charged, swinging her sword in a vicious arc that would decapitate her foe. Satan stepped aside at the last moment, flipping his sword up to batter her attack to one side. The collision almost ripped her blade from her hand. It felt like she had struck a wall of granite. But she would not be deterred. She launched another flurry of blows, alternating at her adversary’s legs and torso. He turned aside each one, his movements languid and sloppy. His eyes were half-closed and he appeared bored.
Her determination cracked within her, but she smothered her doubt and pressed the attack. Surely she could defeat him. She was the storm. He would quail beneath her unleashed fury.
But then Satan backhanded her with enough force to drop her to the ground. Before she could recover, he stomped on the flat of her blade, snapping it in two. Then he kicked her in her side, sending her skidding across the ground until she smashed, back-first, into a boulder. The breath exploded from her lungs, chased by painful daggers that sliced through her ribs. She coughed, worried that she would spit up blood.
Satan loomed over her, a sneer etched into his face. “Did you truly believe that you could defeat me? I, who have faced adversaries far stronger than you? I, who have defeated all who dare oppose me? You are nothing compared to my strength. You are no storm. You are nothing.”
He raised his sword to deliver a killing blow, but before he could strike, another voice cried, “Hold!”
Another warrior approached, an elderly man. The warrior gaped at him, for he was so rail thin that it appeared as if a stiff breeze could break him. He wore no armor, just threadbare rags. His sword, if one could charitably call it such, was obviously dull and notched. He looked down at her with wet eyes as he passed, shuffling around her to interpose himself between Satan and her.
“You dare intervene?” Satan thundered. “Who do you think you are?”
“Nobody. Nothing.” The old man’s voice was a whisper, thready and light.
“You speak the truth, old man!” Satan cackled. “You will be mowed down as well. Are you ready for the coming storm?”
“Are you?” The old man set his feet in the ground. “I do not fear you.”
“You will.” And with a great roar, Satan raised his sword to strike down the old man.
The warrior tried to cry out a warning, but her voice caught in her throat. To her horror, the old man knelt down on the ground, lying his sword before him, his head bowed low. Satan’s blade dropped in a vicious arc…
And light exploded across the battlefield. The warrior closed her eyes against it, but even still, the radiance bled through. And she saw. She saw a being of light, with sword in hand, knock Satan backwards. She saw her adversary crumble beneath an unstoppable attack, finally retreating as fast as he could.
The glory faded and she risked opening her eyes. All that was left was the old man, kneeling before her with a smile on his face.
“I…I don’t understand,” she whispered.
“I am not the storm,” he said. “Instead, I only serve it.”
No strength of ours can match his might.
We would be lost, rejected.
But now a champion comes to fight,
Whom God Himself elected.
You ask who this may be?
The Lord of hosts is He,
Christ Jesus, mighty Lord,
God’s only Son, adored.
He holds the field victorious. ~ “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God,” verse 2