Eyes of the Heart, The: Seeing God's Hand in the Everyday Moments of Life

by Tracie Peterson

  Picture, if you will, grown men cavorting in leotards and capes. Masks or elaborate makeup shield their identity. No, it’s not the ballet, it’s a televised wrestling match. These men stand toe-to-toe, matching brawn for brawn, blow for blow. The crowds pay outrageous money to see these spectacles, and the television announcers make more noise and fuss than women in labor.

  Watching wrestlers throw each other into the ropes or do the death slam or whatever they call it is not exactly my cup of tea, but I found the example useful.

  So often I’ve tried to wrestle in the flesh to solve my problems. My opponents are often unknown to me until I’ve gone several rounds, but usually they have specific names and elaborate trappings. They come in the guise of friends or minor conflicts. They come flying at me from every direction, refusing to yield the floor, threatening my welfare and security, slamming me up against the ropes.

  Sometimes the matches are short and simple, and I easily come out the victor. Other times the fights are long and arduous, lasting well into the night. I’ve lain awake entire nights battling problems that seemed so overwhelming that they were wrestling the life right out of me. I’ve come face-to-face with situations where my flesh demanded retribution, reward, revenge. While at the same time, my spirit pleaded with me to turn to my Father’s interests rather than self-interests. Some battles were won, and some were lost, and just like flesh and blood battles, these spiritual battles left their wounds and injuries.

  Sound familiar? Have you ever labored in your own strength to fight a spiritual conflict? Ephesians 6:12 states, “For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms.”

  Our struggle isn’t against flesh and blood, but we certainly fight our battles as though they were. We fight selfish fights, noble fights, even righteous fights. We battle for our own cause and for the cause of our loved ones. I can’t begin to tell you the number of times I’ve taken up offenses for my friends and family. Wound someone I love, and you wound me. It’s a part of the fierce loyalty I feel for those whom I care about. It can also turn to sin rather quickly.

  We wrestle against all kinds of problems—spiritual battles of will that seem to grow darker and more demanding by the minute. We fight and fuss and push and strain against the Enemy and still we find ourselves bloodied and worn.

  We battle financial worries, we fight against lies told about us, and we wage war against the pain of rejection. Spiritually, we battle against having our own way, against changing lifelong habits of destruction, against giving ourselves over to sin because it seems more self-gratifying than purity. We struggle to the point of losing sleep, losing weight, and losing our minds. We fight a battle in the flesh that has no basis in flesh.

  Spiritual battles are nothing new. Eve faced one at the hand of the serpent. Saul was convinced putting an end to David would solve his own spiritual problems. The Pharisees and Sadducees were certain the spiritual well-being and the healing of the Jewish people could be resolved by killing Jesus.

  Spiritual battles come in every shape and form. They come in misunderstanding. Satan loves to work in this form. He uses misunderstanding as an oil painter uses canvas and brushes. It’s one of his finest mediums. Misunderstanding can start in the most innocent way and then snowball into tragedy.

  Another of Satan’s favorite tactics is the craft of assigning motive, or judging. Christians are some of the harshest judges of people and their sins. Satan loves this. He uses it to divide us and to destroy the foundation of love and hope that Jesus has given us.

  Picture a woman fretting and worrying about why her husband hasn’t come home from work. It’s late, and he’s well overdue. Add to this a rocky background for their marriage. The husband had once been a drinker and a womanizer. No matter that he’s turned his life over to God and hasn’t carried on in this way for more than a year. The wife begins to judge her husband for his tardiness.

  “I’ll bet he’s slipped into his old ways,” she says. “He’s probably at a bar right now.” Her anger grows as she looks at the clock. He’s more than two hours late, and memories of his past mistakes are hurtling fiery darts her way. She plays judge and jury, condemning her mate for actions that may or may not be true. Another half hour passes before her weary husband drags in through the door. “There was an accident—a tire blew—the car went off the road,” he explains, but instead of worrying about her husband’s condition or whether he was even involved, the wife is angry and filled with doubts.

  The battle is on.

  The spiritual damage is done.

  Another wrestling match begins because of worry. Worry is a spiritual battle I know well. I have often battled in the flesh to try to defeat worry. I’ve rushed around to complete a task, worked an extra job to make ends meet, juggled important priorities to the back burner in order to take care of ones that seemed more important.

  At the end of the day I drag around in a weariness suggestive of having engaged in intense physical labor. When, in fact, it’s my spirit that has been defeated and worn. I’ve chosen to wrestle in the flesh, and now I’m paying the price. My battle was never against fleshly opponents, but it’s taken its toll on my flesh, nevertheless.

  In this damaged and wounded state, I finally turn to my real source of strength. The source I should have gone to in the first place. But I often ignore Him until I’ve exhausted my own possibilities. Jesus is the source.

  Sometimes we forget that He’s already fought the battle for us. He took the misunderstandings, concerns, worries, and fears, along with every insult, false judgment, and undeserved condemnation, and allowed them to be nailed with Him to the cross. We needn’t take them back, but so often we do. We struggle and strain and fight and wrestle, and all the time we suffer. But we don’t have to.

  Jesus is in the business of spiritual wrestling matches. He knows the opponent better than we can hope to. He knows the Enemy and his moves—his tricks and his conflicts. Jesus won’t ask you to fight in the flesh what so clearly can only be battled in the spirit. What Jesus will do, however, is require you to get out of the wrestling ring and leave the match to Him. He’s your champion—your defender—your hope. So instead of wearing ourselves out wrestling with an adversary who is after our lifeblood, why not send Jesus in to do battle instead?

  How is this accomplished? First, you must believe that Jesus will go to bat for you, believe that He wants to stand as your champion and protector. Jesus has already won the victory, and Satan has no power over you. Do you believe this?

  Second, stop jumping to conclusions when misunderstandings and questionable motives come into play. When someone says something that grates, when someone’s tone sounds accusing or harsh, rather than respond or assign motives, pray through the matter. Ask God to give you a right heart. Ask God to give you grace to endure touchy situations without speaking out and causing more trouble. Whatever you do, don’t go back into the ring.

  And last of all, stop thinking you have to do everything—face every battle—on your own. You have a champion who will go forward, a loving Savior who has already taken your place on the cross, where it really mattered. Do you doubt that He will intercede for you in the minor conflicts of daily life when He so willingly gave His life for you?

  Take off those wrestling boots and that mask. Take off the super-avenger cape. Reach out your hand and take hold of the King of Kings. Then sit back and rest in the divine nature of God’s protection, while Jesus takes Satan to the mat. The bell has sounded. A new round is about to begin. What’s it going to be? You, wrestling in the flesh? Or Jesus, stepping in on your behalf?

  19

  Does God Reach Back?

  With the exception of two years when we lived in Dallas, Texas, I spent the first fourteen years of my life in a church that was pretty low-tech and even-keeled. We didn’t clap or sing any song that hadn’t been approved for the
hymnal, and we certainly didn’t have guitars or drums in the worship service. In fact, I’m almost certain someone told me that drums were the devil’s playthings, and it was probably for this reason I was never given one as a toy. Then again, it could be I made enough noise on my own, making a drum unnecessary.

  We were so calm in our worship that you rarely saw anyone raise a hand during the singing. Oh, once in a while, one of the little old ladies who didn’t have to worry about what people thought would raise one arm toward the ceiling during a particularly moving chorus of “I Surrender All.” But otherwise there wasn’t a whole lot of visible worship going on.

  When I was five years old, I remember standing in church singing “Amazing Grace,” when one of the older women raised her shaky right hand. Now, on this particular occasion, a little girl in front of me just happened to pose a question. I can still hear her.

  “Momma, is that lady reaching up to touch God’s hand?”

  Her mother, ever patient, leaned down and whispered, “Yes. That’s exactly what she’s doing.”

  “Does God reach back?” the child asked.

  Good question, I thought. Does He? If so, why aren’t we all raising our hands? And if not, why not? Doesn’t God want to touch us? My five-year-old mind ran rampant. I waited eagerly for her mother’s answer and leaned forward ever so slightly to get the scoop.

  “Of course He does,” the mother replied.

  I breathed a sigh of relief. But then I got to thinking about it. I mean, I’d never seen my mother or father or grandmother raise their hands to touch God. Was there something wrong with them? Didn’t they want to touch Him?

  The next week at church, I learned that the same old lady had died. Again my mind sorted through the details, and I decided that raising your hand was kind of like a signal to God. It suggested you were ready to go—sort of an intergalactic, divine thumb out to hitch a ride to heaven. No wonder people didn’t raise their hands to God. If you did, you got snatched up and taken away.

  After that I started watching folks carefully. If anyone I cared about raised their hand, I wanted to be sure to give them a hug good-bye. I didn’t know exactly how quick God would reach back and grab them, but I wanted to be on the safe side. I didn’t have a whole lot of trouble with the situation. Like I said, we were a pretty easygoing, but stuffy-formal church.

  As I grew older, I came to reconsider the idea and realized, mainly because people weren’t disappearing as much as hands were going up, it was a bit off base. I figured what I’d heard that mother tell her child was true. Folks were reaching up to God, and God most likely reached back. But I wasn’t sure why they were doing it.

  Now, I had given my heart to Jesus at the age of six, but I have to be honest. I did it mostly out of fear of hell and the awful judgment of a long-bearded God. Beards scared me anyway at that age, and when my Sunday school teacher suggested that the way to get on God’s good side was to accept His Son as Savior, well, I was all for it.

  And, of course, I loved God. You had to. Otherwise He might come down and take issue with you. But I wanted to love God too, because my folks had instilled in me a love of His creation and a belief in His mercy and love for us. But even with this, I still wasn’t sure why I would want to reach out and touch God.

  I pondered the situation long and hard. Believe me, when I get to pondering, the wheels keep spinning until I’m satisfied with the conclusion. I figured there was something to this that I just wasn’t getting. Maybe the mother had been wrong. Maybe people weren’t reaching up to touch God, but rather putting out a hand to ward Him off. A kind of ducking system that suggested acceptance of fault on the part of the sinner, but the desire to deflect the blows of correction. It seemed possible, at least in theory.

  During my teens we changed churches, and the people were a bit more open with their hand-raising. Some waved them in the air as if they were trying to get God’s attention, while others barely bent their elbows and held their hands up. It looked like they’d lost the tray they’d been carrying. Some even raised both hands, and let me tell you, that was a bit startling. It added a whole new aspect to my reasoning. Because now the people looked more like large children, raising their arms to be picked up. Not only this, but they did it when we were singing praise songs and choruses of love. I kind of liked the idea of reaching up to my Abba Father, who by this time was no longer an imposing God on a throne who was waiting to smack me upside the head when I strayed, but rather the one who wanted to love me into repentance.

  I no longer worried about whether reaching upward was a signal to beam me up. And I no longer figured it to be a way to keep God from using His mighty right hand to put me in my place. Reaching up seemed a reasonable, tangible act of a child who wanted to be held by her Father. I gave it a try.

  I slipped up my right hand as we sang “Blessed Assurance.” It felt wonderful. I looked around me and saw a few other hands uplifted, but it wouldn’t have mattered if I’d been the only one. I was reaching up to touch my Father’s hand. And do you know what?

  He does reach back.

  20

  The Faith of a Mother’s Prayer

  When I was about eight years old, we moved to Dallas, Texas, so that my father could attend computer school for two years. We had never had a lot of money, but moving robbed my folks of what little comfort they’d had. My father’s paycheck was much less than it had been, while the bills were every bit as high. On top of this, my folks had acquired new expenses with the move. The budget was tight. The margin for error was zero.

  I remember my folks trying to figure out how to make it all come together. We rented a run-down house in a poorer section of town. My mother often joked that the cockroaches helped us move in. My dad said the bugs were big enough to saddle and ride. My sister and I were fairly oblivious to the worries they suffered, because our folks did a good job of hiding their worry from us.

  We made soup out of ketchup and called it fun. We bought five-cent bags of week-old bread and considered it a prized find. We filled the deep-fat fryer with water in order to heat a can of black-eyed peas, because my folks couldn’t afford both electricity and gas, and the stove was gas operated. I didn’t know we had it all that bad, until we went to bed one Saturday evening, and I heard my mother crying from the other room.

  Nothing strikes fear in the heart of a child so easily as hearing a parent cry. When parents cry, you know that something really bad has happened. When parents cry, children cry too. And I did.

  The next day we ate what was left of the old, dry bread, feeling blessed by the fact that we could toast it. Feeling like kings, because my dad had brought home packets of jelly from work. We went to church not with full bellies, but not empty ones either. Coming home, however, we knew the truth. There was nothing left. There was no food in the house, and payday was five days away.

  Eating and playing were my only real concerns at that age. Now one of the major components of my security was missing. The cupboards were bare.

  I don’t know if this has ever happened to you, but let me tell you, it’s a fearful thing. I remember wondering why we couldn’t just go to the store and get some food. It seemed very logical to my eight-year-old mind. Never mind the money part.

  I was a fairly astute child and saw the worry in my parents’ expressions. I’d heard my mother cry the night before. I knew things weren’t good, but I didn’t know how to help. I asked my mother what we were going to do, and she said, “Pray.”

  I had known my mother to be a woman of prayer since my first memories of her. She believed in the power of prayer and had great faith that God would see us through. Her faith became food to my soul.

  As she began to pray, I felt my spirit calm. I heard her pray for our meal—the meal that wasn’t even there. I heard her thank God for the food He would provide. Then she closed the prayer and looked to each of us. “What do we do now?” I asked.

  “We wait for God,” she told me.

  It was only a few mi
nutes later that someone knocked on our front door. In anticipation of answered prayer, I followed my mother and father to the door. Outside, on the front porch, were several of the new friends we’d made at church. Their arms were full with sacks and bundles of food. Not just cans and packages of unprepared food, but also a hot meal, ready for our consumption.

  Loaves and fishes. Ravens bringing bread and meat.

  My mother cried, which made me a bit weepy as well. I wasn’t sure why she was crying, and it caused me to fear. Seeing me in such a state, she turned and smiled, saying, “Look what God has provided.” The words gave me an overwhelming feeling of confidence in the power of prayer. After our friends left the food and had gone, we sat down to a wonderful lunch, and again my mother praised God for His bounty.

  “We are sharing a meal of answered prayer,” my mother told us.

  The thought intrigued me and forever changed my life. Suddenly every Bible story miracle was visible on my table. God sending manna to the Israelites. The boy with his fish and bread lunch being multiplied to thousands. Elijah being fed by the ravens. Every single time God had heard the prayers of the destitute was evidenced in that meal. And even at eight years old, I knew the truth of the power of prayer.

  Faith in God, born through answered prayer, is a matter of the heart. It’s the quiet prayer whispered at the incubator of a premature infant. It’s the elderly woman who puts in her tithe, knowing full well she doesn’t have enough to live on. Faith is knowing that God is who He says He is, even when it seems impossible for it to be true. It’s the impossible that makes faith so very possible. Because God is a God of impossibilities.

  The faith prayers of a godly mother are a thing of wonder. My mother shared her faith with me, and God opened my heart to see the marvel of it all. Food came not by ravens but by loving people who knew what it was to be hungry. Friendship was offered not because of what we could give in return but because they were living out the very essence of Christ through their kindness.