I always remember what my karate master said about being in a knife fight, “you will get cut, so stop worrying about it.” He was right, if my sole focus was on if I was going to get cut, not only would I get cut – but probably very badly. My focus would be distracted, not be on disarming the attacker, nor on what in my environment could be used for defense, or most importantly, how to escape and not be in the line of danger at all. Life is a lot like that, if you worry about getting cut, then you are only watching the blade and losing focus on everything else going on around you.
He taught us to watch our opponent’s eyes, the eyes will telegraph the next move. Watch for muscle tension in the shoulders – a rise or fall will tell you where the next move is coming from, and balance, where was my opponent’s balance. All forward? To be so lucky. Weight relaxed onto the back foot, experienced fighter. Life is not so different. Our eyes are windows to our soul, they tell our story. I could never get anything past my mother, she would tell me that my eyes spoke to her. Would creep me out sometimes, but it also told me that my mother took the time to read me, to look at me, to not fear that intimacy of looking into my eyes. She took the time for that interior gaze. Our shoulders tell a story also, my chiropractor can tell volumes about my life just from laying hands on my shoulders. We telegraph our lives with our bodies. And balance, how we stand, where our weight is…speaks to our balance in our lives. Are we easy to sweep, or are we rooted, strong, close to the earth?
I learned a lot in karate, more about life than actual fighting. Our teacher always said that the best fight was the one we were not in, be smart, be observant, don’t invite danger. He said better to know 2 or 3 techniques that always work for you, that were second nature, than to know dozens and do them all badly. I miss training, I miss stick fighting, sparring, and I must confess – board breaking was a rush. But the lessons learned stayed with me, especially self-defense against a knife. I am so out of practice, but he taught us to watch how someone held their knife, it spoke to their level of expertise, he would tell us to never turn the sharp edge of the knife towards ourselves, and that there was no shame in running for safety.
Spiritual warfare, knife fight…so similar. Spiritual darkness, abandonment, desolation, and doubt. Doubt in the existence of a good God, doubt in the existence of a lukewarm God, doubt that life exists on any other plane of existence. Doubt, a great weapon in the hands of evil. Complete cessation of God’s presence, beyond dryness, beyond arid…absolute desolation. Accusations hurled at a God that I don’t believe in, bleakness of a world without God. Doubt in His Presence, if non-existent…then dialogue is pointless. Prayer wanes, defeat reigns. Conversation of the heart ceases, only discipline keeps the body going through the motions of belief.
Night time is the darkest, all is quiet. Vulnerable, mentally exhausted, seeking sleep. An undeniable presence, I have felt it before – mocking, cold, why is possible to feel the presence of evil if I can feel no good? Familiar words spill from lips, rebuking the evil one in the name of Jesus Christ, casting all evil to the foot of the cross. Hands reach for the rosary that I keep under my pillow, haven’t touched it in months, but it belonged to my mother…I always keep it near. Ave Maria, gratia plena…the Latin that I have struggled to learn flows off my tongue…Dominus tecum…the cold recedes. It is true you know, there are no atheists in foxholes. How quick I was to forget that I didn’t believe and that I was not talking to God or any of His friends.
Heart still beating, I beg God for protection, ah there is the stumbling block, now there is dialogue…why, why didn’t you protect Justin, I trusted you would always keep him safe. Where were you when evil stalked him that night? Why my Justin? Screaming questions at God, I realize that God’s ability to chase away evil was not dependent on whether I was talking to Him or not, did not depend on my level of disbelief or despair in Him. I called, He answered swiftly, dispatching the presence of evil, I no longer felt any fear.
“Justin was not unarmed”, a voice from inside speaks. I know what he means. Justin was a gentle, gentle soul…but he was not unarmed. He knew the battle, been in the fight, he fought with the very sharpest of blades, the sacraments, scripture, prayer…his unswerving faith in a good God.
I read Isaiah 49:2, “He made of me a sharp-edged sword and concealed me in the shadow of his arm. He made me a polished arrow, in his quiver he hid me.” God’s word is a sharp-edged sword, a knife to be thrown at the evil one that will find its mark every time, we only have to arm ourselves with His blade. Our proficiency and skill can be that of a child, our Father is the one who wields the sword.
I look at the knife in my pocket differently now, and the one in my purse…I firmly believe a lady should always carry a blade, or two. If nothing else, they remind me that my sharpest blade in this fight is God’s Word. Like self-defense, I don’t need to memorize the entire scripture, but hold close in my heart the ones that fall from my lips when evil surrounds me.
He and I still aren’t like we were, nothing is like it was. I have come to realize that I have to build up my faith and trust from the very foundation, a new understanding, a new spirituality must be forged. I realize that God understands, He is the one guiding this transformation, He knows my heart, my confusion, my anguish for my son. He knows that His Word is like so much sawdust on my lips, dry…so dry. Wait for the second rains, He says…they will come.
