The War Comes Home

It was late at night when the demons came. They attacked in the darkest hours of the early morning, at that time when the human body is at its lowest ebb. When the insomniac suffers under the most intense, painful, part of the condition, yearning for the blessed relief of sleep, yet completely unable to achieve it. When one can actually feel the body dying a little from the strain.

The demons started their attack off quietly. They nibbled away at the walls built to hold them at bay. They were quiet, insidious. They moved stealthily until they overwhelmed the defenses. And then they hit with full demonic fury. Fighting them required more effort than was humanly possible.

I'm not talking about pointy-horned, fire-breathing clawed, physical demons. I'm not seeing things here. I'm not crazy enough to think they are real, in the sense that one could actually see, feel, or hear them. The ones that I'm talking about are worse. These are the ones that are personal. I believe that everyone has them.

You know what I'm talking about. They probably hit you a little differently. They're the ones that tell me that I'm not worth anything. That I'm a horrible attorney, a horrible father, a lousy husband. I'm not nearly as smart as I think I am. That I'm a sorry excuse for a son, moving away from my immediate family when they needed me the most. That I'm talentless, classless, and pretty much useless. That I'm now out of shape, old, and good for nothing. That my health is going downhill, and there's no good years left in me. That I've done horrible wrongs to those who loved me. That this sorry state was the best my life had to offer, and it was more than I deserved.

They whisper to me that my marriage is doomed to failure. That I'm going to be penniless and good for nothing for the rest of my life. I'll never get ahead. That I'm raising my son wrong. That I'm standing in church, playing guitar as the biggest hypocrite in the place. That the place would turn on me in an instant if they knew what I had done. That I have no business being there.

Yes, I struggle with self-worth. Every day. The devil hits you where you live, where it hurts the absolute most. And those demons had me right where they wanted me, in the wee hours. At the point where doctors tell us people pass away the most often. Three o'clock a.m. had just struck, and there I was. Lying in bed alone, I could hear the sound of a far away train. Wracked with guilt, with sadness, with shame. With all the pain and all the weight of the world on my shoulders, I sat alone in the darkness. I have never been able to say that I felt the darkness before. But I did that night. It was cold, but I could feel within it something that burned with hate.

I've been laid low in the past year, about as low as a person could get, so I thought. I didn't think it could actually get any worse.

I was wrong.

I have never felt worse. I'm not sure if I ever could. This was utter, hopeless despair.

I almost didn't hear the little footsteps coming down the hall. Under siege as I was, I almost didn't hear the quiet, cloth-padded feet. It didn't really register until I heard the door open, and that small, wonderful voice say, "Daddy?"

He came in, rubbing sleep out of his eyes, and dragging his little pillow behind him. He held his arms out for me to pick him up. The minute his head hit my shoulder, he dropped fast asleep in that wonderful, miraculous way that only small children can manage. Blissful, restful slumber. The kind that only comes from the knowledge that he is safe, warm, and loved. The kind that indicated he had no idea of the terrible battle that was being waged in my heart and mind.

I felt a peace settle in, as though a great weight had lifted off my chest. I knew at that moment that everything was going to be all right. I knew that better days lay ahead, and that I was worthy and loved, especially in the eyes of one little boy.

I have heard about spiritual warfare. I don't think I ever understood it until that very moment. It's real. There was a war going on that night. There was a crisis of faith and purpose that I cannot even describe. There are powerful weapons at the enemy's disposal, that work on the places where a person is the most vulnerable. And it had me on the ropes, absolutely.

But there's a power at work that's far greater than anything that can be brought to bear against us. It can be subtle, but there's no mistaking how truly powerful it is. It is absolute power. It is the power that shaped the world. It is the power that sent a being that we don't fully understand to make the ultimate sacrifice for mankind. It is the power that allowed an infant to save his father from an ancient evil that had all but crushed his spirit that night. I don't think the timing of my little boy was the least bit coincidental.

I slept peacefully for the rest of the night, the demons utterly defeated and destroyed by the love of a small boy in Cars pajamas, and the power that sent him there.