Tonight at church, an older woman stood up and told us that she had a problem that she could not control. It was an act of humilty and a plea for help. Her husband sat next to her and his eyes were filled with tears. His frail body looked especially helpless as he looked up at her and wept for her. Later that evening as he came up with the offering plate, he gave the word of prayer. His voice cracked midway through as he shared his joy of salvation and his deep burning desire for the people who did not know our Jesus and His wonderful mercies. His tears ran freely, unfettered by a desire to look cool or to remain composed.
I felt uneasy at first, as if I was listening in on a conversation that should have been between him and God alone, but as he went on, I was moved to tears as well. In this fragile man, withered by years of heartache and trial, I saw an amazing warrior of God. His heart was broken and the shattered pieces were being offered on the altar for his King- pieces spent for his neighbors, his friends and for his wife, but not for himself. I want that. Not because I will look cool or because it is the right thing to do, but because he was unswerving in his fervor. He would have willingly cried at the altar for hours if it meant someone coming an inch closer to God. And it shames me.
I had looked at him earlier in the evening and smiled because he struck me as awkward. He was cute in an old man sort of way and I dismissed him, not in a mean way, but in a way that relegated him to something less than what he truly was.
-A warrior-
I have never seen a sword made of tears before, but tonight it shone brightly before everyone in that room. No one asked,”Why do you cry?” Instead, it seemed as if everyone was asking, “Why do I not?” That is what moves men- not violence or charisma, but heart. Gandhi never fought with sword or stick, but his actions changed a nation forever because his actions were about the love of others above the love of self. May I learn how to present my own sword for the Master’s hand.
