I don’t think enemy territory always looks the same. In my experience, it looks vastly different than what we would expect both because it is where we walk daily and because the battle isn’t always raging as we might think it would. At times, the battle is subtle, creeping slowly and covertly upon us until one day we realize that the enemy has closed in.
There is a beautiful pond in the woods where I find myself so often. Its borders typically remain a safe distance from the trail yet are close enough to beckon my attention. And beckon, they do, as a blanket of brilliantly green algae dances upon them and stretches across the vastness of the pond. It is simple yet fascinating and it brings me great joy to stop and take in its beauty.
On a recent hike, it caught my eye, but this time it was because it wore nothing. Its shoreline had receded due to a lack of rain in our fall season and, subsequently, the green evidence of its thriving healthy had diminished. While I stopped and took in the transformed sight, I knew that with each dry day that followed, the pond would become more nonexistent than the previous. It served as an example of that subtle, slow-creeping, and covert type of battle, and it reminded me of the story of Elijah.
I tend to associate rain with God’s mercies. Perhaps a subconscious way of finding praise in weather I do not find to be preferable, I always thank God for the rain because it puts me in mind of Him drenching us in His mercy. Yet during the three-year drought in the time of Elijah, God’s mercy wasn’t on hold. It wasn’t locked in storage, waiting for the clouds to burst open so it could be released. Yet before the physical eyes of Elijah and of those who lived during that time, His mercy wasn’t seen.
I wonder what I would have thought during the time of Elijah. I wonder if I would have been able to praise God for His mercy while my crops died, my family went thirsty, and we experienced suffering. I wonder if I would have been able to praise Him as the border of inherent hope seemed to recede. I know full well that His mercy isn’t dependent upon weather patterns; we walk in a constant soaking of it. Yet, without the visual reminder, would I even be able to see His mercy? Or would I remain so focused on the perceived lack that I would linger in a place of immobility and inaction?
The Truth is that I have no more control over what God does than that pond has over its filling or its drying up. I do, however, have control over my response. Like Elijah, I can accept God’s provision in the drought, even if it is given in an unfamiliar manner. Like Elijah, I can remain in the midst of battle - be it raging or subtle and covert - and trust that at the perfect time, He will call me out. Like Elijah, I can walk into what He calls me to even if I don’t know precisely what that is, as Elijah walked into God’s calling of him with the widow.
Like Elijah, I can face seemingly draining and bleak circumstances yet cling to hope that His brilliant blanket of mercy covers me even when it is not entirely obvious.