Battlefields

Saturday was a day. 

You know. 

Those. 

Not horrible. But intense.

It was a "processing day."

It started out too early... awake by 5:30, from scary and restless dreams. Those dreams had been plaguing me all week.

And as I lay in bed, too early to function, yet too awake to fall back asleep, my brain and heart began to process. And out of that, came my previous blog post.

It was a day spent in the kitchen. Processing fruits and vegetables from the feria, and making staples like gallo pinto, homemade spaghetti sauce for dinner, and chicken salad for sandwiches the next day.

Lots of mindless chopping. Lots of time to process.

When suddenly, the processing took a scary turn.

Body image issues, demons that I've struggled with my whole life, but recently gained some victory, began to crop up.

A voice in my head that has been put to rest for the last two months, suddenly became the loudest one I could hear.

Damaging self-worth thoughts, from which I've received some deep healing during my time here in Costa Rica... all started coming to the surface.

And this onslaught was on a body that was exhausted from lack of sleep, and emotions that were hurting from a week of bad dreams. My defense mechanisms were malfunctioning. And my ability to "take every thought captive" was... well, it was gone.

"Jesus - have I lost all the ground that we've gained in these eight months? Am I really back at the starting line?"

And yet, even as these questions came out of my mouth, I was saying, "I KNOW that changes have been made! I KNOW that Jesus healed me. I KNOW that today is just a 'day.'"

Sunday came.

I woke up, once again too early and from restless dreams. The pounding was the same.

But I had just read "take every thought captive," and spent some serious conversation time with Jesus in my bedroom, before I could face the day and the rest of the household.

And then.

We had a baptism.

A bus pulled up to the front of the church, and Ticos, Nicos and Gringos all got on. There was an air of excitement! Smiles. Laughter. Emotions.

Worship. Message. Testimonies.

And then... water time. Twelve precious individuals, proclaiming that from yesterday on, their lives would be different as they chose to follow Jesus.

People that we have prayed for. 

Lives that we have prayed over. 

And seen changed. 

And Jesus was getting 

All 

The 

Glory.

In our house, we talk about spiritual warfare a lot. We talk about it, because we experience it. Because we are on the front lines.

Sometimes it's so in your face, heavy with evil, that it's easy to recognize. And sometimes, it is subtle. Like, life is just seeming extra... lifey.

When we walked back into the house yesterday, Di said, "Now does yesterday make sense?"

It did.

Because we added twelve new warriors to the battlefield. Twelve new comrades to stand with us on the front lines.

Of course there was going to be opposition.

Of Capes

I'd always been a fan of my Super Woman cape. 

I wore it well. 

And often.

If a friend was in emotional, spiritual or physical pain, I was the hugger, prayer, or driver. If they were in the hospital, or on their way to the ER, I was the go-to person. There were countless nights that I'd get home after midnight, hang up the cape in my closet, and climb into bed for a few hours of sleep before heading out to work the next morning.

It's who I was.

What I did.

How I rolled.

My phone would be constantly making noise - countless emails, texts and phone calls each day.

Most of the time I loved it! 

It was who I was. 

I had worth, because I was needed. 

And then that was stripped away.
I was in a new country.
Without US cell service.

The first few months, I went from having a phone that received upwards of 30-40 texts a day, to getting one text a week - and that was generally from the phone company telling me I could purchase additional minutes and get double for the same price.

Near the beginning of my time down here, I was talking to one of my nearest and dearest, about a situation happening at home, where I desperately wanted to be there to "FIX IT!" She said, lovingly and firmly - "Lindsay. Do what you went to Costa Rica to do. Start praying."

And the internal struggle raged - 

BUT DON'T YOU KNOW??
     It's MY JOB!
          I need to FIX IT!
Not just... pray?
     To the One Who is actually capable of fixing it.
          Crap.
               Truth hurts.

Time and time again in my months here, I've had the realization that all I can do is pray. I'm thousands of miles away.

I can't drive up the driveways of friends who need me.

Or to ERs.

Or funeral homes.

Or psych wards.

Or grocery stores.

Or anywhere.

All I can do is - -

deploy   Jesus   into   the   situation. 

And sit back, and watch.

Yes - I wore the cape well.

But it wasn't mine to wear.

Boldly Reverent

I remember the first time years ago that Hebrews 4:16 became mine... And I realized that when it said, "So let us keep on coming BOLDLY to the throne of grace," that it meant I could come. And not hold back and just encourage others to go.

And when I pray, I do.

I go boldly.

(Ceiling of The Basílica in Cartago)

Jesus and I have incredibly candid conversations. My private prayers have been known to start with a humble, "God - we need to talk." My New England has come out when I was typing out a prayer for a friend in need, and ended it "In Jesus' wicked awesome name, Amen." And I horrified myself, when exhausted one night in Bible school, I accidentally referred to God as "Honey" in my bedtime prayer.

I am far from flippant in my relationship with God. I am aware that when I pray, I am addressing the God of the Universe. The Creator of all. But I also know I am addressing God my Father. The One who created me, loves me, and is fully vested in every detail of my life. Mom & Dad raised us to be incredibly respectful when praying, but also to know that God is big enough to handle the hard questions, when asked with a right attitude. And I'm grateful that when life is not making sense, or hurting too much, I can go to God and talk to Him. And not fear repercussions if I actually tell Him how I am feeling.

My first month in Costa Rica we visited The Basílica in Cartago, and the thing about that day that most affected me, was watching the devout Catholics humbly crawl down the long central aisle, to pray at the altar in the front.

(The Basílica)

And as I sat and watched I had conflicting thoughts.

One side of my brain said, "We get to come boldly!"

And the other side said, "When was the last time you humbled yourself enough to show that level of reverence when talking to God?"

(Making her way up the aisle)

We went back today, and the same conversation played over in my head as I watched numerous people make the long, hard journey on their knees to the front of the church.

There were people of every shape and size.

Those who were dressed up, and those in jeans.

Housewives and business men.

Old and young.

(Praying at the altar)

One little boy, Pokemon backpack plastered to his small back, was crawling as fast as he could trying to beat his mom up the aisle. He crawled so fast that he got a little top-heavy and did a face plant right next to the pew where I was sitting. He stayed flat on his face for a minute, then got up, flashed a huge grin at his mother, and flew down the rest of the aisle to the front.

The chapel was pretty silent, as people sat or knelt to pray, and I was distracted by talking behind me. Then, in my peripheral vision I saw that it was another person crawling his way to the front, praying out loud as he came. He was wearing a t-shirt, jogging shorts and bright yellow sneakers. He carried an empty water bottle in his right hand, that he periodically smacked into his open left palm. He had to stop frequently, because his bare knees bearing all his weight on the tile floor was painful. When he finally reached the altar, he crawled up the last three steps and stayed there to pray. And then, he rose and I watched as, instead of crossing himself he looked up at the statue of Jesus on the cross... and threw Him the peace sign.

So, I still don't have the equation of bold vs reverent figured out. I'm beginning to wonder if it's a time, place and situation kind of thing. And I know with certainty it is a heart issue. But that peace sign... deep down I kind of think that made Jesus smile.

 (Center of the ceiling)