A tiny toddler stands on the slimy cobblestones; alone it seems.
It was the 90’s, or the 2000’s.
Around the child a storm began to rage.
We, the parents, were at church. Little paper cups and treat trays.
But we left the back door open and our toddlers felt the wind.
A cold, stenchy hand crept in with a crooked finger pointing down.
And they, like foolish children do when they look for another light, followed.
All these years later, the world has changed.
Bombs that once were distant, rattle the church walls.
The garish windows reveal less of us inside.
The party ended sometime, and there were no funds to pay the groundskeeper.
Paper cups are lying sideways in the gutter.
We, the parents, have lost the innocence in our eyes. We’ve seen too much.
Millions of aborted babies on our shoulders.
Rape, drugs, suicides, mental illness, loss, Loss. LOSS.
The enemy advanced. Our Bibles got sneered at.
And now we realize, where are our little ones?
Our babies were kidnapped.
Childless, we weep. Deep aching cries to our God.
We step outside the filmy church walls.
The landscape is filled with wreckage.
~~ —————————– ~~
No more, we declare.
This isn’t just about a stolen election.
~~ —————————————— ~~
A fake religion sprung up with a powerful grip.
It provided a momentary piece, of a puzzle.
Made up of bits of tarot cards and dreamcatchers, and diversity posters.
The fake religion allowed all forms of non-Christian god, or no god in the belief system.
A shiny storefront of a build-an-idol workshop on main street.
As the black battle turned into a storm, the blood-orange blasts revealed glimmers.
Of a pseudo-god with no power to save, since it didn’t exist.
~~ —————————————— ~~
We, the gray ones, our hair-color turned because of the horrors we’ve seen.
Now, finally, we’re getting mad. Determined.
We’ve sharpened our rusty bayonets.
We squint to see without our glasses.
We look around for young warriors who could fight with mightier yells.
Still, fight, we must.
Casualties are everywhere. Enslavements.
Now is the time for the real God to step in.
On the skirt of His robe, clings His ragged, older, knob-kneed waifs.
Tears stream down our cheeks. We grieve for our lost children.
We ask forgiveness we didn’t fight better back when we were strong.
And the real God pauses in His march.
He wipes the tears from our eyes and picks us up to ride on His shoulders.
Aged soldiers gain our feet, with more strength left than we realized.
~~ ———————————————– ~~
A tiny toddler stands on the slimy cobblestones.
Bombs are falling everywhere.
Cold gales, icy rain, darkness in all the movies, books and games.
Most don’t even have enough income to rent an apartment by themselves.
Dreams of what to be when grown up, are a thing of the past.
Some begin to see; an evil hand has almost destroyed everything good.
‘Rise up!’ this is barely heard.
‘Rise up!’ scratchy, old-sounding voices call.
The way to win this war is to return.
Turn back to Jesus who died to save you long ago.
Turn back to the God of your fathers.
Of your mothers.
Put your armor back on.
Then wear the helmet of salvation, like safety on your head.
Strap on the truth of the real God around your middles.
Step into big boots of the gospel of actual peace.
Forgiven, you wear the breastplate of righteousness.
Holding up the shield of faith, nothing can level you anymore.
And, our only weapon, the sword of the Holy Spirit. It’s enough.
On the dark, war-savaged streets, warriors arise.
They are unexpected.
Light breaks through the chinks of their armor.
Behind them is a vast, angelic-type, warrior host.
God has answered the feeble prayers.
He will always come.
But the children we ache for, have to want to be saved.
God never forces us to fall in love with Him.