Battle fatigue — Faith — Stylin' Granny Mama

She watched her through the open window that looked down on the small balcony. The young girl looked out over the river that lazily wandered past the castle. The child was hers, but she was no longer looked like a small girl. She had grown in those years she had been held captive by the enemy lord. She felt a lump in her throat that she could not swallow. The girl, her girl, didn’t want anything to do with her, her very own mother, nor her grandfather, the King.

When they had first found her in the enemy’s castle she was like a caged animal. The room they found her in was filled with waste and squalor. The girl did not recognize her mother at first and when she tried to take her in her arms, which ached to hold her again, the girl screamed. That scream had pierced her soul. They were finally able to get her out of the castle by coaxing her out with sweets. The thought of it still made her shudder.

Eventually, the girl saw that they were not going to hurt her and in fact were going to provide for her pretty clothes and good food, things that she hadn’t gotten when she was a captive, but still, she kept asking when she could go home. It galled her to think her only child thought of his palace as her home, even after how she had been treated.

A noise from behind her caused her to turn. Her father, the King, approached. He put his arm around her shoulders and gave her a squeeze.

“Father, I don’t know what to do. I feel absolutely helpless…I know she is hurting, and probably angry at me. I let it happen. I let her get caught by that evil man. I am to blame and now, I can’t even look at her without feeling utterly hopeless.”

The King took in a deep breath and let it out very slowly. She often saw him do this when he was thinking before he spoke, a practice he always thought wise.

“Daughter, you know how very much I love you, so I can understand those feelings of helplessness and even hopelessness. Did you know that I could not sleep at night when you were being courted by your late husband? It terrified me to let you go, knowing each step you took towards independence took you further and further away from me. But, I had to learn to trust the One. I knew that He would always take care of you, no matter where you were. Even when I eventually sent you into battle.”

She pulled away from him, suddenly feeling angry. “This is not a simple courting session that my daughter went through. She was beaten, starved and we don’t even know yet, if he did other vile things to her. She was just a child. Was the One with her, when that was going on, or has He abandoned her…has He abandoned us?”

The King sat heavily in a chair that stood near the fire burning cheerfully in a brazier. He pulled the footstool in front of him and patted it.

Once again, he wanted her to sit, to listen, to learn from him.

As she did so often, she began to pace. “No! I am not going to sit at your feet, like a little child and have you explain to me, how I need to trust the One. He let my little girl get hurt. He let her get caught by that vile enemy.”

“Now wait a minute. Is it your fault, or is it His fault?”

She stopped and stared. “Well…I….I….I don’t know! All I know, is that little girl is not the same person I knew before she was taken.”

“Are you the same person you were before she was taken?”

She inhaled, trying to practice the same technique he did, not speaking until she was sure she was in control.

“No. I am not.”

He patted the foot stool again and smiled.

Reluctantly she sat.

He leaned forward and took her hands in his own large ones. She could feel the callouses there. He was no show piece. He was a king who fought and bled beside his own men for the causes he believed in. How could he keep his calm demeanor? He always seemed at peace, no matter what.

“How do you to it? How did you send me into battle, knowing full well, I might never return?”

“Do you remember how your mother used to love to weave tapestries?”

She smiled, remembering her mother, the Queen working tirelessly into the night weaving various colored threads together. “She used to hang it, so that when we came into the room, we could not see what the finished picture would be.”

The King let out a chuckle. “Oh yes. Once time I tried to sneak in when she was away and she had the loom booby trapped! I suddenly found myself doused by a bucket of honey mead. I couldn’t get the flies away from me for weeks.”

She laughed, remembering her father taking bath, after bath, after bath, but unable to get the sweet ale completely washed out of his hair.

He squeezed her hands. “Your mother always had a purpose for everything she did. Why do you think she presented the tapestry to us only from the back side, until the work was done?”

She shrugged. “I had always assumed she just loved the surprise on our faces when we finally saw it.”

“Oh there was definitely that! However, in addition to that she wanted to remind us of what real life is like.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Life is made up of all manner of threads, some beautiful colors and others dull and even ugly. If you didn’t know that the front of the tapestry was going to be made into a beautiful work of art, you would have thought the piece merely an ugly, jumble of random colored threads and knots where the threads had been tied off. It is that jumbled mess that makes up our lives. The ugly threads and the beautiful ones are all necessary to make the completed picture.

The One is weaving those threads. He is making all of it, even the threads we don’t understand or want to understand into a picture of such great beauty that it will be declared a masterpiece, when we finally see the finished product.

Your mother was an artist and she taught you those same skills before she passed on. What are you going to do with your threads? You can use them to create beauty, or like our now dead enemy, you can use them to weave chaos.”

The King leaned forward and kissed her forehead, then he rose to his feet and quietly left the room.

She stared into the fire, that slowly claimed the fuel it was burning. The fire was chaotic, yet it served a purpose to provide warmth and cook food. It was even beautiful in its dance of flame. Could it be, her father was right; that beauty could come from the chaos of life?

She knew what she had to do. She would teach her daughter the loom. She would teach her the dance of light and flame, darkness and chaos and pray the One would bring healing and beauty for them both.

This is a fiction piece by Amy D. Christensen

In 2010 Ravi Zacharias wrote a book titled, The Grand Weaver. It was this book and the images he shared of God being the grand weaver of our lives that inspired the imagery revolving around the tapestry in this story. If we can grasp His divine plan for our lives, in which He uses all the good, the bad and the ugly, how much easier would it be to let Him have control. I hope you enjoyed this story.

You can see the previous parts to this story by clicking on the links below:

Part 1: Return to Battle

Part 2: A Father’s Perspective

Part 3: Waiting

Part 4: Ready to Die

She stood, looking at the expanse of land that rolled out from the castle walls. Her balcony overlooked the picturesque river valley and as the sun began to set she could see its fire glinting off the distant liquid ribbon. She felt rested, still there were moments where she wanted to stay in the soft bed that stood closer to the fireplace. There, the fire always seemed to burn cheerily in its stone dwelling.

The battle had been fierce. Had she foreseen the damage that happened on that particular day, she might have run. But she didn't. She stood her ground and fought, just as many others did beside her. Some fell at her feet and she had to step over them, still fighting, raising her sword over and over and over. Her arms grew so fatigued she no longer felt the sword in her hand, only kept the repetitive movement; lift, swipe, strike, jab. She had no idea how many her sword had taken down. She didn't need to know. They were all enemies of the King.

The only wound she received was one of the heart. No one could see it, but it was there and it was deep. One she loved most dear had been taken by the enemy. A captive, taken, she knew not where; tormented, she knew not how, though she could easily imagine. The vileness of the enemy was obvious in the land. He had no reason to be subtle. He was powerful and prideful. She knew one day, that pride would be his downfall, but until then, they'd continue to fight against him and to fall.

She turned when she heard footsteps. A servant approached her tentatively. He bowed.

"His Highness, the King wishes to see you in the library." The young man kept his head lowered.

She thanked him and he left.

She put on her shoes and wrapped herself in a warm bulky sweater. Closing her door behind her she moved soundlessly down the hallways of the castle. She knew how to move without making noise. She had been trained in all areas of covert and overt combat. Before she entered the library, she took a deep, calming breath.

She loved the library. It wasn't just her love of reading and books that drew her here. It was the coziness and peacefulness of the place. The walls were made of rich, dark mahogany. The carpeting which ran wall to wall was plush. Sometimes she would take off her shoes, just to feel the softness of the rug beneath her. The curtains hanging at the windows were made of deep red velvet. Interspersed throughout the room were luxuriant furnishings of all sizes. Her favorite was an over sized chair and its companion footstool that sat close to the grand fireplace. It was in this chair that the King sat. His feet were up and his eyes were closed.

She stopped. If she didn't wake him, she could skulk back to her room and put off for a little while longer this conversation she knew was coming. That wasn't going to happen. His voice carried clearly from his comfortable position.

"Come, dear one. Sit."

His blue eyes looked at her. She moved closer to the fireplace, but didn't sit.

He put his feet on the floor and patted the foot stool. She smiled at him, feeling like a lost sheep, but instead of sitting she began to pace.

"You know it is time." His voice was gentle.

She looked towards the fire blazing furiously in the hearth. She didn't want him to see her fear. She didn't want him to know how her heart cowered. Silly, she knew. He could always read her like one of the many books surroundng them.

"I know you do not feel ready. I know you are hurt, inside, where it is so much harder to heal. But you are one of my best warriors. I can't let you stay here any longer. There is too much at stake. There are too many at risk."

The gentle tone of his voice was almost maddening. She knew he was right, but she needed more time. She couldn't go back out there. Not yet. She couldn't go back to that war, that enemy. That one who ripped something, someone from her who was so precious. She just wanted to forget. To pretend none of it ever happened....but she couldn't. She knew it and so did the King.

"I...I can't my Lord! I...I...am not ready."

He sat forward in the plush chair and once again patted the footstool in front of him. She sat, their knees almost touching.

He put a hand on her cheek and wiped the tear that had fallen there. "Daughter, this is about a much bigger war than the one we fight on this plain. You know that."

She was up again. Pacing, back and forth in front of the blaze, like a caged lion, looking, always looking for a way out. "You don't understand! This enemy...he's different! He's vile....you don't know! You weren't there!"

He stood and in one step was in front of her, his graying beard becoming straggly from lack of time for grooming. He stopped her and took her hands in his.

"I was there." Again the gentleness.

She looked at him questioning. "What do you mean? I would have known if you were there."

"Do you remember that battle, back in the winter? There was a certain warrior wearing animal skins and donning a helmet with horns. You laughed when you told me about him....said he was a Viking by any other name?"

Her eyes widened.

"And don't forget in the spring, when the rains came, the warrior whose face was so covered in mud you couldn't tell if he was of light or dark skin..."

He paused.

She felt the coldness that had accompanied her for so long begin to melt away. He had been there. Of course he couldn't come out looking like himself, or the enemy would have recognized him. She looked into his piercing blues, questioning....

"The time will come, when I will come out as the King, but not yet...this war is not just about the child that was taken from you, but about all the children, and all the souls that are ensnared by our enemy. I need you back at the front."

She took a deep breath and shuddered. She could say no. She was his daughter, after all. She didn't have to go back and he would still love her. Of that she had no doubt. But his words about the children got to her. Her child was taken. Stolen from her by that enemy. Even if she was still alive and they found her, she knew her daughter would have scars.

She squeezed the strong, calloused hands that hung on to hers. They were the hands of a warrior, a king and her father. She knew they would always follow her into battle, fighting beside her until she took her final breath.

She went to her knees before him. "I am ready, my Lord."

“ Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous! Do not tremble or be dismayed, for the Lord your God is with you wherever you go.””

— Joshua 1:9 (NASB)

“Finally, be strong in the Lord and in the strength of His might. Put on the full armor of God, so that you will be able to stand firm against the schemes of the devil. For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the powers, against the world forces of this darkness, against the spiritual forces of wickedness in the heavenly places. Therefore, take up the full armor of God, so that you will be able to resist in the evil day, and having done everything, to stand firm. Stand firm therefore, having girded your loins with truth, and having put on the breastplate of righteousness, and having shod your feet with the preparation of the gospel of peace; in addition to all, taking up the shield of faith with which you will be able to extinguish all the flaming arrows of the evil one. And take the helmet of salvation, and the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God.
With all prayer and petition pray at all times in the Spirit, and with this in view, be on the alert with all perseverance and petition for all the saints, ”

— Ephesian 6:10-18 (NASB)

(This is a fictional work written by Amy D. Christensen)