Sidearm & Sword, Trumpet & Harp

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I stood in my barracks utterly spent, and war-torn by the day’s goings-on. Slowly I dismantled myself next to my wanting bed, unfitting myself of my well-used armor. Virtue by virtue, I took myself to pieces until I stood plain and normal…shield in the corner, sword in scabbard. I was just a man. It’s all I’ve ever been.

Vulnerability set in. The kind that beckons me to my knees. The kind that wells up like a child behind my eyes. My heart was pricked, just then, by a sweet, simple song that came over the airwaves. It was a heartsong. It was a plucky Irish neo-hymn…and it caught me off-guard. You know, in the best of ways.

And I needed to be caught off-guard, mostly because I’ve been at this post a good while, a long while. And while my hair is not yet gray and there is vigor left in these bones to make war, I have been on-guard long enough to see many my age fall or weary or crumple at the trials and difficulty and seek, how do you say, easier routes and nicer stations. But, there I was, breast plate and belt unloosed, boots and helmet off, ammo and grenades locked away, with a song playing directly to the inner man I swear I once was.

I used to make sweet melodies and sing myself hoarse.
I used to play so hard my fingers bled,
a sweet psalmist of the northern realm.
The fire in me used to be red hot with revival….
…used to.

Bottom line: this warrior wants to bleed again. I want to remember what it feels like not only to grip sidearm and sword, but trumpet and harp. I want to scream those fight songs and dust off the “battle hymnal.” Those unabashed Irish boys made my pulse quicken like rusty cogs on a motor that hasn’t been started in a good while. Oh Father, remind me to be reminded…that this is a love affair as much as its a battle for lost souls…that we are not only an army, but a choir. And would You make me one of the crazies that goes before the soldiers with none but harp in-hand, praising the LORD for the beauty of His holiness.

Remind me.
Refresh me.
Kick start this thing.
I want to let loose…
Sing…dance…shout unto The Lord.

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About Joshua M. Brindle

Child. Father. Husband. Herald. Writer. Messenger. Psalmist. Poet-Prophet. Biker. Beard-wearer. Teacher. Pastor? Follower. Disciple. Disciple-er. Bearer of the Torche. Keeper of the Flame. Waver of the Banner. Running the race. Fighting the fight. Revolutionary...hopefully.
This entry was posted in Calvary Chapel Iron River Teachings, Communalism/Acts Model, Flame, I AM RESISTANCE!, ministry, Poet-Prophet, Revival, Tribe of Judah General, Tribe of Judah School and tagged , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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