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with Kathleen Gibson Oct. 22, 2008 The Warrior is a Child The day had been too long, and included too much wrestling with words and worries and misbehaving attitudes (my own). I slunk into our living room and heaved myself onto the couch across from the Preacher�s recliner. �What�s the matter, Hon?� he asked. �My brain is scattered, my eyes are fuzzy, and my spirit is heavy.� �Hey, I�m like that every day,� he said, referring to his ongoing battle against encephalitis, courtesy of the mosquito that infected him with West Nile Disease. �Yeah, but I�m supposed to be the strong one!� �You are!� he shot back. �I�m a lot weaker than you think I am,� I retorted. For thirty-one years, he and I joked about my pumpkin shell. I was a �kept� wife, and glad to be. Since the attack of the West Nile pirates I�ve often prayed, �Help, God! A mosquito blew apart my pumpkin shell!� It�s uncomfortable, this new reality. I�d rather he decide what kind of car to buy, what city to live in, what to live on, and under what roof. He shifted in his recliner and looked at me, his eyes full of compassion. �The warrior is a child,� he said softly, reciting the title of one of our favorite songs by Twyla Paris. The lyrics include this: �Lately I've been winning battles left and right, but even winners can get wounded in the fight. People say that I'm amazing, strong beyond my years. But they don't see inside of me, I'm hiding all the tears.� I thought of the Preacher�s personal battles with the pirates, the worst of which are invisible to others. And of friends, battling pirates of different stripes. We all deserve Oscars for our bravado performances, sometimes. I met one of those friends the other day. A new set of furrows traced their way across her usually serene face. Unlike the Preacher, her husband no longer sits in his recliner and lends an ear. Death took him, decades too soon. (It�s always too soon, isn�t it?) �How are you?� I asked. �Oh, fine.� But her eyes didn�t concur. There should be a different way to greet each other during battles, don�t you agree? Words that don�t require us to tell an outright lie. Sometimes I say �Still standing!� when people ask how I am and I don�t feel like elaborating�or lying. That song continues: �They don't know that I go running home when I fall down; they don't know who picks me up when no one is around. I drop my sword and cry for just a while, 'cause deep inside this armor�the warrior is a child.� Are you fighting pirates? Do you fall down, sometimes, too? Drop your sword. Run to the one to whom you can always tell the truth. Bury your face in Jesus� hands and let your tears fall through his fingers. When it seems no one could possibly understand, he�ll pick you up and loan you his strength. It�s what fathers do for their children. � Kathleen Gibson Respond Home |
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