Sample Chapters

Introduction

I was born in a war zone, but it wasn’t until the seventh grade that I truly waged war on the enemy. 

As a child, I didn’t know the language for what I was living. There were no uniforms or front lines—just long nights lying awake, replaying conversations, rehearsing fears, bracing myself for the next day. I learned early how to stay alert, how to read a room, how to carry tension quietly in my body and move forward, anyway. Whatever the struggle was called, it lived inside me, shaping how I thought, how I reacted, and how I survived.

It started on an ordinary afternoon as I stood on the steps of my junior high school, waiting for my mom and brothers to pick me up. My bright purple backpack felt too loud against my shoulders, the straps digging in as I shifted my weight from one foot to the other. I watched groups of students peel away in clusters, laughing easily, calling out names I didn’t recognize. I didn’t know where to stand or what to do with my hands, so I kept fidgeting and tightening the straps. This was my first year in public school after spending most of my childhood in a private Christian school, and everything around me felt unfamiliar—the echoing halls, the innuendos I didn’t understand, even the teachers moved through the day like strangers.

Looking back now, I can see how much had unraveled in just two years. The collapse of my parents’ marriage left no clean edges, only questions I didn’t know how to ask. My mother’s remarriage brought joy and the gift of a new brother, but it also reinforced how much my life had shifted without my consent. My father had moved to another state, and his absence settled into me like a hollow space I didn’t know how to name. At thirteen, standing on the edge of adolescence, I felt suspended between versions of my life that no longer fit—caught between what had been and what I didn’t yet understand, unsure of where I belonged or who I was becoming.

That day, as I stood there on the steps, in my blue striped t-shirt, my favorite pair of shorts, and platform tennis shoes, I felt small. Alone. The concrete steps were still warm from the sun, but a faint breeze raised goosebumps along my arms. The other students had disappeared one by one, leaving me to stand there, waiting, my shadow stretching long and thin across the sidewalk. I felt like an outsider. A stranger in my skin. I watched the school parking lot, hoping to see the familiar, comforting sight of my mom’s full-size van pulling up to scoop me up and take me home—the squeak of its sliding door, the way she always waved too enthusiastically. However, as the duration of time expanded, she remained unseen. My stomach twisted with a gnawing sense of dread, tight and hollow all at once. She was never this late.

In that moment, something shifted inside me. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a small black pickup truck parked on the curb. It was an old work truck—clean enough not to draw attention, but worn in a way that suggested long days and longer miles. The paint was dull in places, scuffed along the bed, and the tires looked slightly under-inflated, as if they carried more weight than they should. I dismissed it at first, figuring it was just another parent picking up a child. But as the minutes ticked by and my mom’s van still didn’t appear, the pit in my stomach deepened. The truck hadn’t moved. Its engine idled unevenly, a low, tired hum beneath everything else, and when it had pulled away from the stoplight moments earlier, I’d noticed a faint, almost complaining squeak—metal protesting metal. I prayed. I begged. “Please, God, don’t let it be. Please,” I whispered in desperation, my fingers twisting the hem of my shirt. My heart raced. The driver’s side door of the truck slowly opened, not all at once but in short, hesitant increments, and I saw a small-framed man step out. His clothes were plain and faded, the kind that blended into the background, and he moved with an odd deliberateness, as if he had nowhere else to be. He looked directly at me—too directly, holding my gaze a second longer than felt natural—then waved, his hand lifting stiffly, almost mechanically.

Fear didn’t make me scream—it made everything go quiet. My breath came shallow and cautious, as though any deeper inhale might give me away. A slick warmth settled on my neck after my skin buzzed and then dulled. My throat tightened, holding back words I didn’t yet know how to say. I walked toward the truck despite the warning pulsing through me, my legs slow and unsteady. Why, Lord? I kept asking, over and over, as I approached the man who had come to take me away.

I didn’t understand then that moments like this don’t just wound us—they train us. They teach us how to brace, how to anticipate danger, how to survive. Long before I had language for it, fear was already shaping my instincts, my faith, and my understanding of strength. What I thought was a single terrifying event was actually the opening move in a much longer war.

That was my introduction to the harsh realities of battle. That moment marked the beginning of my personal war. I wasn’t on a battlefield with guns and soldiers, but I was engaged in a fight just as real. And though I didn’t understand it then, it was a war that would shape the person I would become.

This story discusses how to fight. How to endure when challenged, and how to fuel perseverance when internal pressures demand surrender.

As a child, I learned the survival skills needed to endure the battles life threw at me. As a mother, I learned what it means to fight not only for myself but also for my children, teaching them how to rise above the challenges they face. War, whether literal or figurative, is not something people should merely talk about; it is a verb.

Throughout this book, I will share some of the hardest stories of my life—stories that reflect the deepest struggles and moments of fear, pain, and loss. But just as importantly, I will share what I have learned along the way about forgiveness, redemption, and grace—truths that I have learned are essential tools for spiritual warfare.

Let me say- I’m not a war expert, and I’ve never served in the military. Even so, I have always been fascinated by the human aspect of conflict—the stories of perseverance, silent bravery, and hope that emerges when people confront immense challenges and somehow endure. During my journey, I’ve learned people don’t fight all battles with weapons or force. Battles fought with resilience, perseverance, and faith often shape us most.

I am not a licensed psychologist, nor do I claim to understand all the intricate science of the human mind. What I do have, however, is an unyielding competitive nature, a deep-seated desire to fight when things get tough, and an ever-growing understanding of how to transform that space into something powerful. Through experience, I learned how to use my innate instincts to confront chaos and transform it into strength.

This book was written as more than a collection of stories but to function as a working manual. Each chapter ends not with answers, but with an invitation: to pause, reflect, and begin sketching your own battle plan. My hope is that as you move through these pages, you’ll recognize pieces of your own struggle in mine and discover the quiet strength to face what lies ahead. And as you find your footing, your courage becomes a steadying force for others, lifting your children, your family, and your community alongside you.

The lessons of warfare and battle—both literal and metaphorical—are crucial for our growth and transformation. They are a part of life we cannot ignore, and they are especially important when we are tasked with raising the next generation of warriors. Proverbs 31:28 reminds us, “Her children rise up and call her blessed; Her husband also, and he praises her. Many daughters have done well, but you exceed them all.” These words reflect the strength and resilience that we, as women, are called to embody—not just for ourselves, but for those who rely on us.

The stories I will share are not for the faint of heart. They are raw, unfiltered glimpses into the struggles I have faced, and I hope that as you read them, you will feel a sense of solidarity—knowing that you are not alone in your battle. This is a call to arms for anyone who has ever felt like an outsider, anyone who has ever wondered if they could overcome their circumstances, anyone who has questioned their ability to stand tall in the face of adversity.

What I came to understand through these experiences is this: courage often arrives long before we feel prepared to carry it. We may not see ourselves as strong or resilient, yet the very fact that we are still standing tells a different story. And if you’ve found yourself here, then maybe, in your own way, it’s time to rise.

 

Chapter 1: Equipped for Battle- What’s in a name?

“Prayer brings the healing power of Jesus’ name” – A.B. Simpson

The name “Summer” reflects both light and the concept of growth.

So, it’s no surprise God keeps calling me into spaces and seasons that feel like spiritual boot camps—fighting darkness, finding purpose, and yes, raising up a generation of warriors who can do the same.

Amid the noise, the broken signals, and the relentless blur of days that seem to unravel at the seams, I have found one unshakable truth:
Light will always prevail.

John 1:5 reminds us, “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.”

The more I age, the more I understand that “light” is not merely a poetic concept or a social catchphrase. It is a calling, and at times, it requires courage and engagement in the quiet battles of life.

 

What’s in a Name?

A name’s power is something we frequently fail to recognize. Most of us never take the time to study it—who we are, why we’re here, what God meant when He spoke our name into existence. Perhaps nobody ever explained this. Or maybe it’s because we don’t think it matters.

Years ago, at a women’s retreat (you know, the kind with matching T-shirts, terrible coffee, and an overabundance of candles), a speaker started sharing about the meaning of names in the Bible. Her words opened a door to understanding the profound ways God shapes identity and purpose, even in moments that seem ordinary.

She began defining the names of Abraham, Isaac, and Sarah, and as she spoke, certain words and patterns stood out to me, revealing God’s intentional design. Each name carried meaning—a gift, a purpose, or a characteristic that would shape the person’s calling. Nothing was random; there was always a reason behind the name, a thread of divine purpose woven through Scripture.

Then she said something that made my heart stop for a second.

“God ordained and inspired their names. And ours are too.”

Cue the goosebumps.

That moment changed me. I realized something I’d been overlooking: far too often; we give people credit for what only God could do. Yes, our parents wrote our names on our birth certificates, but God chose our identity.

Jeremiah 1:5:

“Before I formed you in the womb, I knew you; before you were born, I set you apart.”

He knew us. He formed us. He named us.
God didn’t outsource that part of creation.

God, Is Still in the Naming Business

If you flip open to Genesis, you’ll see something beautiful about God’s character. He doesn’t just create — He names.
He created light and called it day.
He created darkness and called it night.
He created the sky, the land, and the sea, and gave each one an identity and a name. 

Naming something gave it purpose. It sets its function.

Now, before my Bible scholars come for me—yes, I know, in Genesis 2, God gives Adam the authority to name the animals. I hear you. Can we not agree that God was still the source of inspiration?

Naming wasn’t a random act; it was a sacred one.

When I began studying Scripture, I noticed how often the phrase “and she named him because…” or “he named the child (which means…)” appeared throughout the Old and New Testaments, repeatedly. Each name carried a story — a reason, an explanation, a glimpse of destiny woven into its meaning.

There are so many incredible examples, but that will have to be for another book. For now, let’s look at just one truly remarkable story.

Genesis 17:19 (NIV)
“Then God said, ‘Yes, but your wife Sarah will bear you a son, and you will call him Isaac. I will establish my covenant with him as an everlasting covenant for his descendants after him.’”

 

The name Isaac means laughter. It wasn’t just a sweet or sentimental name; it was prophetic. It told a story of disbelief turned into joy — a promise fulfilled after years of waiting.

As I continued studying, I realized something beautiful: the name revealed something about the person — a gift, a purpose, a characteristic that would become significant to their calling. There was always a name, and there was always a reason for the name.

So what does that mean for us?

According to Hebrews 13:8, God’s nature doesn’t change. That means if He once ordained the names of men and women with such divine intention, then He is still creating and naming today.

 

You Are No Mistake

You are not an accident, friend.
God Himself created you, named you, and called you by name.

Isaiah 43:1 says:

“Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name; you are Mine.”

The Creator of the universe doesn’t just know about you—He knows your name.

When I began really understanding that, I began to immerse myself in the study of names. I started looking up everyone’s—mine, my husband’s, my kids’, my friends’. (Yes, I became that person.) And what I discovered left me in awe.

There were patterns, connections, and sometimes even warnings. Names possessed an inherent strength, not just beauty or symbolism.

 

My Name Journey

Here’s what the “name study” looked like:

Research the name: Summer

Definition: Light; Season of Growth
 

What does light do?

It diminishes darkness.

It gives the ability to see.

It illuminates the truth.

And there’s a dark side of our identity that exists when not surrendered to Christ. For example, too much light can scorch what’s growing—so awareness matters!

 

What scriptures contain those words? 

 Matthew 5:14 jumped out at me:

“You are the light of the world. A town built on a hill cannot be hidden.”

I sat with that for a while. And it hit me: being “Summer” wasn’t just about being sunny or upbeat—it was about illumination. About helping others see. About growth, even in heat.

That revelation changed how I saw myself. It added purpose.

For several years, I hosted a girls’ confidence-building conference centered on personal identity—embrbracing who you are and learning to respect the differences in others. One year, I had the privilege of welcoming two groups of girls: one from a juvenile hall facility, and another from a Native American tribal association. That year’s theme was “Fight Like a Girl.”

The speakers poured into these young women, helping them discover their value and understand that each of them had something worth fighting for. At one point, every girl was given a Post-it note and asked to write down her why—her reason to keep going, her reason to fight—and place it on the wall.

By the end of the day, that wall was covered in hundreds of Post-it notes.

And every single one told a story.

The answers were raw, honest, and deeply moving—words that reached in and grabbed hold of your heart. Many of these girls had experienced abuse or neglect. Some had been made to feel invisible, unwanted, or forgotten. And yet, in that space, they were able to find their worth—and not just feel it, but name it. They spoke it clearly, boldly, without hesitation.

Truthfully, most grown women I knew couldn’t have been that honest.

That moment stayed with me. It became a quiet but undeniable confirmation: everything God was asking of me was tied to identity. But it was never meant to stop with me—it was always meant to pour out for others.

To this day, I still keep those Post-it notes. Every now and then, I go back and read them—reminding myself that those moments, those voices, those declarations… they are part of my why. They are part of the reason I keep fighting.

 

A Name Is Not Just A Label

How many of us treat our names like simple labels?

In the Bible, a name wasn’t a coincidence—it was an assignment.

“Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name; you are Mine.” — Isaiah 43:1

 

Even from the very beginning, names carried intention.
Scripture names its first person in Genesis 2:22–24.

“Then the Lord God made a woman from the rib He had taken out of the man, and He brought her to the man.
The man said, ‘This is now bone of my bones and flesh of my flesh; she shall be called woman, for she was taken out of man”.

Notice the structure.
Verse 22 tells us how she was created.
Verse 23 tells us what she was called.
Verse 24 tells us why—her purpose.

When naming Eve, God was revealing her identity and destiny.

 

The Power of a Name Change

The last layer of understanding came when I realized the power of the name change. This happens throughout both the Old and New Testaments.

Abram became Abraham.
Sarai became Sarah.

Jacob became Israel.
Saul became Paul.
 

And Revelation 2:17 tells us that one day, even we will receive new names—ones that only God knows.

Each name change marked a covenant—a divine turning point between who someone was and who God called them to be.

So what’s the significance?
Under the surface of every intentional name lies a description, a set of traits and characteristics that we embody. We had an intention and a purpose when we were created. These divinely named pieces of us reveal themselves organically over time. But when we fully submit ourselves to Christ, we see those qualities in their fullness—the way God intended them to be used.

Our strengths, when surrendered to God, become blessings and gifts. But when they’re not surrendered, those same traits can become our downfall.

Don’t believe me? Look at David. His name means beloved. He was considered a man after God’s own heart. When he surrendered his love to God, he reflected divine courage and devotion. But when it wasn’t, that same love led him into sin. Same character, same passion—completely different outcomes depending on surrender.

Names are important. They are God’s personal stamp, His mark of intention upon us.

 

So… what does this have to do with Raising Warriors?

I’m glad you asked.

Before you can raise warriors, you have to know who you are.

If you don’t know your identity, how can you know you’re called to battle?
If you don’t know what armor fits them best, how can you train your children to fight?
Without understanding their design, how do you encourage someone in their battle?

These questions point back to one critical truth: knowing your identity in Christ.

I’ve always been deeply passionate about identity—probably because of the way it showed up in my own story long before I had words for it. My mom was adopted at birth, and my dad, while not an only child, lost his only sister at a young age. So while we did have extended family and cousins around us, none of them were connected by blood. There were no shared physical traits to trace, no inherited features that tied us back through generations. Our family still felt small in that way—almost self-contained—like a story that began with us instead of one we had stepped into.

But for my mom, that absence wasn’t just a missing branch on a family tree—it was a constant, quiet ache. I watched her wrestle with questions that didn’t have easy answers: Who am I? Where did I come from? Who do I look like? Was I unwanted… or was there more to the story? She had incredible adoptive parents who loved her deeply, and that love was real—it mattered. But even the best love doesn’t always silence the questions that live underneath the surface. There were moments when you could see it in her eyes—that searching, that wondering, that longing to understand where she fit.

And I think that’s where I first began to understand how powerful—and how fragile—identity can be. Because when those questions go unanswered, or when we sit in them too long without truth to anchor us, they can start to distort what we believe about ourselves. The questions themselves aren’t the problem—but when we let them echo unchecked, they create space for lies to creep in. Slowly, subtly, the enemy’s voice can begin to sound louder than truth, shaping how we see ourselves instead of grounding us in who we really are.

And in this world all around us, voices compete for attention, painting distorted reflections of who we are. This distortion hampers our strength in spiritual battle. But when we step into the clarity of our true identity, we claim the first victory.

Your name is not random. It is the first prophetic declaration ever spoken over you—the sound of your assignment.

Yet, knowing your name is just the starting point. You must partner it with intentionality, study, prayer, and a willingness to hear from God. When He speaks identity into you, it’s not just information—it’s transformation.

 

Practical Steps to Discover the Meaning in Your Name

Here’s a starting point—something simple but profound.

Research your name.
Use a biblical concordance, a name dictionary, or a reputable website like Behind the Name or Blue Letter Bible.

Pray and ask God for revelation.
“Lord, show me what You meant when You named me.”

Study scripture connected to that meaning.
Find verses that speak to it, and pray them over your life.

 

Do the same for your family.
Look up your children’s names and pray those meanings over them. You’ll be amazed at what God reveals.

When I did this for my family, it changed how I prayed. I stopped asking God to make my kids like me and started asking Him to make them who He created them to be.

 

Identity Is the Foundation of Warfare

Spiritual warfare isn’t just about prayer and armor—it’s about identity.

The enemy doesn’t waste energy fighting people who don’t know who they are. 

If he can confuse your identity, he can confuse your mission.
But if you know who you were called to be—your spiritual DNA—you become a problem for the enemy.

Knowing who you are in Christ gives you the authority to stand your ground, to push back lies, and to raise others to do the same.

 

A Warrior’s Prayer

“Father, thank You for calling me by name. Thank you for knowing me deeply and for writing my story with purpose. Show me the meaning behind my name—the light You placed inside me. Help me walk in that light and to raise others who know who they are in You. May my words and actions reflect the name You’ve spoken over me. In Jesus’ name, Amen.”

Scripture References:

Jeremiah 1:5
Genesis 1–2
Genesis 17:19
Isaiah 43:1
Matthew 5:14
Revelation 2:17
Hebrews 13:8

 

Chapter 3: Called to Battle

“You can only correct what you are willing to confront.” – T. D. Jakes

 

Every warrior must be equipped before the battle begins. Strength alone is not enough, and passion without preparation leaves us vulnerable. Scripture makes it clear that God never sends His people into conflict unarmed; instead, He equips them with truth, wisdom, and discernment. In the pages that follow, we will reflect on how God uses His Word to shape, strengthen, and prepare His people for every good work, reminding us that no warrior enters the fight without first being equipped.

Paul spends a good amount of time teaching the church about “the equipping of the saints. “

2 Timothy 3:16-17 (NLT)

All scripture is inspired by God and is useful to teach us what is true and to make us realize what is wrong in our lives. It corrects us when we are wrong and teaches us to do what is right. (17) God uses it to prepare and equip his people to do every good work. 

Funny as it is, I’ve found myself depending on—and using—that word in the most ordinary ways throughout my life. It started when I was a kid, competing in sports. Around fourth or fifth grade, I began running track.

At my first race, we lined up at the starting line, and the gun cracked through the air. Competitive by nature, I took off like I had something to prove. It felt like I was running for my life. Adrenaline, nerves, anxiety, and excitement surged through me, and my little legs just kept moving.

About three-quarters of the way into the race, my body shut down. My lungs tightened, my chest locked up, and suddenly I was gasping for air. I couldn’t run anymore. I slowed to a walk, desperate and confused, whispering to myself, “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me… I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me…” over and over, like it was the only thing holding me together.

My chest burned. Each breath felt like it had to fight its way in. And then, almost without thinking, I started screaming—not out of fear, but just to force air out, hoping somehow it would make room for more to come in. It was raw and instinctive.

I looked up and saw my older brother at the finish line, waving me forward, calling me in like I belonged there. So I kept going.

And somehow, I finished.

Not only did I finish—I had come in first. I had even lapped the other girls in the race.

My dad came over, half concerned and half amused, asking what had happened. Between breaths, I told him I couldn’t breathe. He laughed at my dramatic finish and handed me something to drink, like this was just another moment we’d shake off.

But it wasn’t just a moment.

Every race that season went the same way. I would explode off the line at a full sprint, pushing as hard as I could, only to end the race the same way—walking, gasping, screaming, and praying silently in my head.

A few months later, after coming down with a cold, I was finally diagnosed with asthma. And suddenly, it all made sense.

Our bodies respond to triggers. Our minds tell us when to stop. But our spirit—our spirit can carry us even when everything else is begging us to quit.

 

Warriors Depend on the Word

I may have been a child but something inside of me automatically used the word to reach the finish line, it rises up in warriors without thinking. And of all the warriors, Jesus takes the top spot. Even the ultimate warrior (Jesus) needed preparation, and He spent time in the desert fasting and praying before facing temptation. That’s when Satan showed up, dangling power and wealth like a shiny lure, hoping to distract Him. But Jesus leaned on the Word, letting Scripture guide His mind and strengthen His resolve, even in a moment of weakness and vulnerability. It’s a powerful reminder that the Word really is sharper than a two-edged sword, able to cut through confusion and get straight to the truth. And yes, we should all remember—Jesus had a minor advantage: He was perfect, and He was God made flesh. Still, the point stands: even the best warrior knows the value of preparation, focus, and relying on a higher power to stand firm.

So for a more relatable example, let’s also look at Ruth. Many women connect with and reference the story of Ruth at some point in their lives. From finding a husband to living with grief, to dealing with a pushy mother-in-law. 

Ruth has been the focus of many of my studies and messages throughout the years. Her life has often been an illustration of my journey. In the past, it did not occur to me that Ruth was a warrior. Often, the concept of a warrior in God’s mind and ours are not the same. Even though we may value similar characteristics, the way it unfolds is usually very different.

Let’s settle here for a minute, as we find Ruth in the land of Moab. You will soon see why she is a warrior.

If you’re wondering who the Moabite’s are, they are Ruth’s people, and yes, they had quite the reputation. You don’t need the full Old Testament genealogy to get the picture. Just know that their history was colorful, and their customs differed from Naomi’s Israelite roots. Think of the next few paragraphs as a crash course: enough to understand why Ruth’s choices were so bold, with no need for a scroll and a magnifying glass.

Moabites are descendants of Lot’s son Moab (Genesis 19:36-38). This son Moab, was born from an incestuous relationship between father (Lot) and his daughter, after running from the destruction in Sodom and Gomorrah and grandma (Lot’s wife) gets turned into a pillar of salt because she refused to let go and looked back. Not very good DNA being passed down here, right?

That explains why the Moabites had a terrible reputation. Nonetheless, Naomi and her family are in Moab because of a famine. As a result, her sons meet Moabite women and marry them. What other choice did they have? 

Naomi’s husband and two sons died before they ever returned home, leaving her stranded in Moab with two Moabite daughters-in-law. The grief weighed on her like a heavy cloak, and her frustration simmered beneath every word. “Go back to your mother’s homes,” she told them sharply. There was no sugarcoating it—Naomi’s heart was breaking, and she didn’t have the patience for polite small talk. Ruth, however, didn’t flinch. In my mind, she squared her shoulders, looked Naomi in the eye, and said simply, “Where you go, I’ll go. Your people will be my people, and your God my God.” In that moment, you could almost see her warrior spirit flare—quiet, resolute, and ready to face whatever came next.

One daughter-in-law listened quietly and followed Naomi’s suggestion, but Ruth—she went full warrior mode. Something stirred within her, a spark that grief or uncertainty would not extinguish. Faced with adversity, she rose, as if God Himself had placed an assignment directly in front of her. She knew little about this God or His commandments; as a Moabite, her upbringing probably hadn’t included teachings about Him. Yet even in that unfamiliarity, something inside compelled her to stand firm. She turned to Naomi and said, No, thank you! “Your God will be my God, and your people will be my people” (Ruth 1:16). In that single declaration, you could feel the weight of her resolve—a quiet, unshakable courage that would guide her through the trials to come.

Little did Naomi know she equipped a warrior with God’s word. When it came down to fight or flight, Ruth was a fighter. 

Like Ruth, a warrior understands that unity is more important than self-preservation. True warriors do not operate in isolation; they equip, strengthen, and build up others.

Paul echoes this principle in Ephesians 4:11–12:
“Now these are the gifts Christ gave to the church; the apostles, the prophets, the evangelists, the pastors, the teachers.”

These leaders are the O.G. warriors of the faith. Their calling is not self-promotion, but responsibility—to equip God’s people to do His work and to build up what Scripture calls the body of Christ. Unity is at the heart of that calling.

We see this same priority lived out in the story of Ruth and Naomi. Unity mattered more to them than comfort or personal security. Ruth positioned herself as a learner, gleaning everything she could from Naomi—quite literally in the fields—while Naomi poured wisdom into her. If the story is unfamiliar, Ruth’s declaration says it all: “Where you go, I’ll go… your God will be my God.” With those words, she binds herself to Naomi and follows her back to Bethlehem, Naomi’s homeland.

It is important to remember the vulnerability at this moment. These were two single women—no husbands, no sons, no protection. Ruth understood the gravity of their circumstances, and Naomi knew that if there was any hope of remarriage or provision, it would not be for her. Together, they faced that reality honestly. Naomi taught, Ruth listened, and both understood that their future—and their survival—depended on their unity. What could be more warrior-like than that?

Shorthand version of the next series of events:

• Both women agree Ruth should go glean from the fields. It was a common practice for people to leave a portion of the crops behind so the desperate could scavenge. 
• Ruth catches Boaz’s eye. Boaz is a relative from Naomi’s dead husband’s side. Oh, and he is very rich. 
• Boaz finds out what Ruth has done for Naomi in taking care of her (service) and finds favor with Boaz. 
• Naomi instructs Ruth on how to respond to Boaz’s favor. Naomi tells her to stay after one night, and to sit at his feet. It is an excellent story you should read. 
• Boaz purchases the land from Naomi and marries Ruth; the scripture refers to him as her “Guardian Redeemer. “

They have a wedding—a moment that is far more than a ceremony. It represents a covenant, a sacred bond that God Himself honors. Scripture tells us that “he who finds a wife finds a good thing” (Proverbs 18:22), and in this union Boaz truly finds something good. Shortly after, Ruth becomes pregnant.

Now, follow the lineage with me, because this is where the magnitude of God’s plan begins to unfold. Ruth gives birth to a son named Obed. Obed becomes the father of Jesse. Jesse then becomes the father of David—the shepherd boy who would become King David, one of the most significant figures in biblical history. And from the house of David comes Jesus, the Messiah Himself (Luke 2:11–15).

So when Ruth married Boaz, it was the ultimate power move—not just for their lives, but for the redemptive story God was writing for generations to come. Every step resulted from God’s power and His ability to orchestrate outcomes far beyond anything we could imagine. This happened because they responded to God’s call, walked in unity, and supported one another for the sake of His glory.

Hebrews 13:18-21 (NLT)

18 Pray for us, that our conscience is clear and we want to live honorably in everything we do.

19 And especially pray that I will be able to come back to you soon.

20 Now may the God of peace- who brought up from the dead our Lord Jesus, the great shepherd of the sheep, and ratified an eternal covenant with his blood-

21 may He equip you with all you need for doing His will. May he produce in you, through the power of Jesus Christ, every good thing that is pleasing to him. All glory to Him forever and ever. Amen!

 

Warriors such as Ruth and Naomi:

1) Pray for a clear conscience and to live honorably

2) Pray for unity in the body

3) They equip others because someone equipped them

4) Produced because of God’s power

5) Give glory to God! 

 

Defense to Offense

What set Ruth apart from so many others? And what made David rise as a warrior while countless other soldiers simply stood by? These two figures, separated by generations, shared a defining trait that changed the course of their lives—and history.

They both made a deliberate shift: they moved from defense to offense. On every true warrior’s journey, there comes a moment when they simply refuse to brace for the enemy’s next attack. Instead, they choose to confront the enemy head-on. Ruth and David both reached a turning point. Rather than waiting for life to happen to them, they stepped forward in faith, took initiative, and waged war against the forces standing in the way of God’s purpose for their lives.

 

Pause (II) Let’s hold it right here! 

I am not suggesting that you stop waiting on God. Scripture is clear: “Those who wait on the Lord shall renew their strength.” Waiting is not optional—it is essential. We move when God says move, and we remain still when He says be still. This principle is about timing, and genuine victory only comes when our steps align with God’s timing, not our own.

But here is what I am saying: at some point, warriors must shift into a proactive posture. Waiting on God is not the same as being passive. Under God’s direction, the warrior stops merely enduring attacks and begins advancing with purpose. They take initiative. They step forward in faith. They move from reaction to action—not recklessly, but boldly and intentionally—because God has signaled that it is time for battle.

 

Un-pause (II)

This is a mindset—a way of living, thinking, and positioning yourself. God does not call His people to be caught off guard. He tells us to prepare for battle, to live ready at any moment and at any time. Readiness is not accidental; it is intentional.

Proverbs 21:31 “The horse is made ready for the day of battle, but victory rests with the Lord.”

Even though victory belongs to God, we still prepare the horse. We do our part while trusting Him for the outcome.

 

Ezekiel 38:7 “Be ready and keep ready, you and all your hosts that are assembled about you, and be a guard for them.”

Here, God repeats the command: be ready and stay ready. Preparation is not a onetime act; it is a continual posture.

 

1 Peter 5:8–9 “Be sober-minded and be watchful. Your adversary, the devil, prowls around like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour.”

We remain alert because the threat is real. Watchfulness is itself a form of spiritual warfare.

 

Ephesians 6 “Put on the armor of God…”

God does not give armor to spectators—only to warriors. Armor signals engagement, readiness, and movement.

 

Joel 3:9 “Consecrate for war; stir up mighty men.”

God instructs His people to set themselves apart for battle and to awaken the warriors within them.

 

Then we see this mindset embodied in Joshua:

Joshua 5:13–15

13 Now when Joshua was near Jericho, he looked up and saw a man standing in front of him with a drawn sword in his hand. Joshua went up to him and asked, “Are you for us or for our enemies?”

14 “Neither,” he replied, “but as commander of the army of the LORD I have now come.” Then Joshua fell facedown to the ground in reverence, and asked him, “What message does my Lord have for his servant?”

15 The commander of the LORD’s army replied, “Take off your sandals, for the place where you are standing is holy.” And Joshua did so.

 

Joshua encounters the Commander of the Lord’s Army—a reminder that the battle is the Lord’s, yet His people must be positioned, submitted, and ready to follow His command.

And we see readiness again in Noah’s obedience:

Hebrews 11:7

“By faith Noah, when warned about things not yet seen, in holy fear built an ark to save his family. By his faith he condemned the world and became heir of the righteousness that is in keeping with faith.”

Noah prepared before the storm came. His readiness was an act of faith and an act of warfare against unbelief.

 

 

Break the Enemy Defensive Line

In Netflix’s war documentary Medal of Honor (2018), Sylvester Antolak is celebrated as a true American hero of World War II. By 1944, after years of brutal fighting, his unit—the Army’s 3rd Infantry Division—was exhausted, outnumbered, and constantly under threat. Their mission was daunting: seize the town of Cisterna, a heavily fortified German stronghold bristling with machine-gun fire. Recognizing that waiting and hiding was no longer an option, Antolak devised a daring plan—he would lead the charge himself, using his own courage to disrupt enemy fire and inspire his men.

Antolak recognized his men could no longer remain pinned down, waiting for the next attack. Something had to shift. A defensive posture would only lead to their destruction. So he made a radical decision: he would draw the enemy fire onto himself. By deliberately making himself the target, Antolak shocked the German gunners, breaking their rhythm and opening a path forward. Wounded multiple times, he still pressed ahead—his courage inspiring his men to advance—ultimately enabling the U.S. forces to take Cisterna.

One commentator in the documentary reflects on the gravity of his choice:

“In combat, there might be a moment where you have to make a decision that will more than likely dictate whether you will live or die… Somehow he really had the ability to understand the situation.”

(Medal of Honor, Episode 2)

Another explains the relationship between courage and reality:

“Fear reminds us you have to do your job.”

And another highlights the contagious nature of bravery:

“Nothing motivated troops quite so much as watching one of their buddies move towards the enemy, and they would feel compelled to support him… This is something that all studies of units in WWII and WWI pointed to.”

Antolak’s story reveals something profound about human nature. Some individuals experience a moment when the warrior instinct rises—a surge of clarity, conviction, and purpose compelling them to step forward when everyone else is frozen. But his courage does not exist in isolation. In all of us, there is something deeply moved, inspired, and filled with hope when we witness someone shift from defense to offense, from hesitation to bold action.

This is why stories of courage resonate so universally. Whether on the battlefield or in everyday life, watching a person act boldly—especially at personal risk—awakens the warrior in those who witness it. Think of any sports movie, or survival movie… a baby trapped in a car, or an elderly person in a burning building. The same principle applies: courage is contagious. Observing one individual step forward in faith and bravery can inspire countless others to act.

Antolak’s act of courage did more than win a battle—it awakened courage in everyone who saw it. In doing so, he shocked the enemy and enabled the capture of Cisterna. That is the true power of a warrior’s decision: it ripples outward, shaping hearts, minds, and the course of events.

I love listening to Steven Furtick on rough days or slow-moving mornings. His passion, his fire, and his ability to bring the word to life encourage me. He has one particular message, “Protected by the hand of God,” that resonated with the heroes from “Medal of Honor.”

Gideon is the focus of this message, but Steven Furtick shares, “My buddy fights in the UFC- he said, ‘You gotta’ survive the assault, you have to work the cut… There’s going to be a round every time you fight… Where it’s going to come on like a storm. The only goal of that round is to survive it… But then… There will be an opportunity to go on the offensive, and you cut him.”

At some point, survival becomes personal.

The day I gave birth to my daughter, I went on the offensive. God places something inside of us as mothers that stirs when our children are threatened. Watch the Discovery Channel sometime. It is easy to see that this instinct is built into almost every animal species. 

Side note: Some people like to call it “momma bear” instinct. Personally, I’m not a fan of that term—bears react to a perceived threat, and, well, we’re not bears. As children of God, we have logic, reason, and, most importantly, the Holy Spirit to help us tell the difference between a genuine threat and one that just feels scary. So, no unnecessary panic—and definitely no Karens, please!

The point is the birth of my daughter took me from a posture of defense, a victim of my circumstances or experiences, to offense. A place mentally where I leveraged my pain to possess the territory the enemy claimed over my life and the lives of those around me. My experience and pain became a fire and passion. The fight was no longer about defending myself from the enemy but about taking the territory from the enemy. 

The first step in taking territory back was to go back…

Back to the day, I was on the steps of my school, wearing the purple backpack. The day he came to pick me up. That day I had no option but to get in and sit on the small seat of the truck with him. I wedged the purple backpack between us and sat as close to the door as I could sit. I asked where we were going and why he had picked me up. 

He said my mom had asked, and that we were going to pick up my older brother from school across town. Every word, every gesture, was a posture of defense.

The news offered a slight relief—we weren’t headed back to his house—but it also meant we would be alone in the truck for a while, trapped in close quarters. My mind raced faster than the engine beneath us, spinning through every possible scenario. How could I prevent him from noticing? How could I distract him long enough to stay safe? How could I make it through this without giving him the upper hand? I calculated the time, every second stretching endlessly in my head. At least an hour—sixty long minutes—to stall, to strategize, to survive, and somehow run out the clock.

During the drive from my school to my brother’s, I kept the conversation at a minimum. Driving didn’t always stop him, but it made things hard- plus, I had my backpack securely positioned between us. Fifteen minutes passed, forty-five to go. 

We pulled up across the street in front of a park. I wanted to get out and run, but there was no one to run to for safety. 

Quick—ask him questions. No child should have a strategy like that, but by thirteen, I did. Talking had become my armor. And not just talking—managing people’s emotions, redirecting their thoughts, pulling them away from whatever darkness they carried. Getting others to shift their minds from their momentary feelings was something I learned at a young age. I used it at school when tension rose, when I felt uncomfortable with my peers. I used it at home after fights, when I needed my parents to move past their anger. It was my #1 survival tactic—make them talk so they forget what they were about to do.

That day, I asked question after question. While he was talking, I was figuring out what to ask next. I asked about where he grew up- why he joined the military. We talked about his favorite coffee shop and about playing the lottery. I even asked questions I already knew the answers to. His siblings’ names and birthdays. Who he got along with best. It seemed like hours had passed. When was the school bell going to ring? 

Thirty more minutes down, fifteen to go.

I tried to keep the questions coming, but his answers eventually became shorter, and his arm started twitching, moving closer to me with each twitch. 

Then he grabbed the backpack and put it on the floor. I tried stalling and said I needed to start my homework. He said I should do that at home. Then he touched my leg. 

For the first time in my life, I said firmly without hesitation. STOP! He proceeded. I jerked away and yelled again, “Don’t touch me.” He tried convincing me it was something I wanted or had asked for. I looked him in the eye and said, “I never asked for any of it.”

Just then, through the outline of his silhouette, I spotted my brother crossing the street. “Look—there’s my brother,” I said quickly, using the moment to pull his attention away and make him stop.

Time’s up.

As in any good defensive game, I blocked the shot; however; I knew deep down the battle wasn’t over.

From that day forward, I refused to be victimized by him, but to do so, I needed armor, a battle plan, and a strategy not only to win but to conquer.

A Warrior’s Prayer

Father, thank You for equipping me with Your Word, wisdom, and discernment. Strengthen me in preparation, guard my heart in the battle, and guide my steps with clarity. Help me move with courage from defense to offense, trusting Your timing, Your power, and Your purposes. May my actions honor You and awaken courage in others. In Jesus’ name, Amen.

Scriptures for Reference

2 Timothy 3:16–17

Hebrews 13:18–21

Proverbs 21:31

Ephesians 6:10–18

Joshua 5:13–15

 

Chapter 8: Wounds Versus Scars

“I’m thankful for the scars
‘Cause without them I wouldn’t know Your heart” – I Am They

Before we talk about healing, we need to understand what we’re healing from. Wounds and scars may look similar from a distance, but they carry very different meanings. Wounds reveal where we’ve been hurt. Scars show where we’ve been healed. The definitions themselves say a lot:

Wounds: 1) An injury to the body that typically involves lacerations or breaking of a membrane and usually damage to the underlying tissue. 2) A mental or emotional hurt or blow

Scars: a mark remaining after injured tissue has healed. 2) a mark left where something was previously attached. Especially: a mark left on a stem or branch where a leaf or fruit has separated. 

 

Warriors allow their wounds to heal

God’s word tells us he is the vine and we are the branches, and if we remain in him, we will bear much fruit, but without him we can do nothing. (John 15:5). Right before this statement, we are also told that He (God) is a master gardener, and he cuts off any branch that does not bear fruit but for those that bear fruit he prunes; making even more fruitful (John 15: 1-2). 

In Matthew 7:16–20, He makes it clear that fruit reveals the nature of the tree—good trees bear good fruit, and bad trees do not. In other words, what grows outward is shaped by what lives within. Our thoughts, desires, and affections inevitably produce visible outcomes.

For the believer, this is where God’s work becomes both tender and decisive. He removes what is diseased and unproductive, and He prunes what is healthy so it can flourish. Yet none of this fruit is self-generated. Apart from Him, we cannot produce what is truly good. Goodness is not a personality trait or a moral résumé; it is the byproduct of salvation, the evidence of Christ alive within us.

This is why the claim “I’m a good person” falls short. Scripture does not measure goodness by intention or comparison, but by fruit. If Christ does not dwell in the heart, there is no source for lasting, God-honoring fruit. And where His fruit never appears, Jesus is equally clear—what remains disconnected will eventually be cut away.

The process of multiplying fruit all starts with a wounding that produces a healing. 

Isaiah 53:5 

But He was wounded for our transgressions,

He was bruised for our iniquities;

The chastisement for our peace was upon Him,

And by His stripes we are healed.

His wounds signify that we are already healed. Because of what Christ endured, we have freedom from the trauma and the harm that once held us captive. We aren’t supposed to stay wounded. Living with ongoing pain is not our purpose. Healing is not just possible—it is promised.

And just as it is dangerous for a soldier to enter battle with open wounds, it is spiritually dangerous for us to do the same. Wise warriors allow their wounds to be tended, cleaned, and healed before they return to the fight. They understand that an unhealed wound threatens their strength, their clarity, and their survival.

But if healing is available…
and if God has already provided it…
why do so many of us remain wounded?

 

What keeps us from accepting healing?

One major reason we remain wounded is that we dwell on the pain, replaying the offense in our minds repeatedly. Instead of releasing it, we rehearse it. Scripture warns us about this pattern.

Psalm 4:4 (AMP) tells us, “Tremble [with anger or fear], and do not sin; meditate in your heart upon your bed and be still [reflect on your sin and repent of your rebellion].”
Notice the direction: when emotions rise, we are told to reflect on our own hearts, not the offense committed against us. Meditation leads us to repentance and stillness—not deeper resentment.

Colossians 3:13 (NLT) calls us to “make allowance for each other’s faults, and forgive anyone who offends you.” The verse immediately reminds us why: “Remember, the Lord forgave you, so you must forgive others.”
Forgiveness loses its power when we dwell on the injury instead of the grace we’ve received.

Proverbs 19:11 (NIV) reinforces this by saying, “A person’s wisdom yields patience; it is to one’s glory to overlook an offense.”
Wisdom leads us toward patience and glory—not through rehashing the offense, but through releasing it.

When we meditate on the hurt instead of the healing, we keep the wound open. But when we meditate on God’s truth, forgiveness, and perspective, we allow the wound to close finally.

Sometimes we carry wounds for so long—and they run so deep—that we don’t even realize we’re still carrying them. When God confronted me one day and gently asked why I struggled to extend mercy to my mom, I answered honestly… but my answer barely scratched the surface. The truth was, the root went much deeper than I wanted to admit.

Growing up, it wasn’t hard to notice where other kids seemed to have an advantage—more money, more stability, homes untouched by drugs or alcohol. There were gaps I couldn’t ignore. But there was one thing I held onto tightly, almost like it belonged only to me: I had the pretty mom. And no one could take that from me.

Naturally, I wanted to look like her. People would tell me I did—but she wouldn’t. So when she’d say, “You look like your father,” it stung more than it should have. My dad was a good-looking man, no doubt—but that wasn’t what I heard. What I heard was distance. What I felt was rejection. Somewhere along the way, it planted a quiet belief in me: you’re not quite enough.

By high school, that need for approval had started to shift. I was finding my independence, but underneath it was a silent determination—I’ll prove you wrong. That determination turned into distance, and eventually into a fallout that led me to move out in the middle of my senior year. What looked like strength on the outside was, in many ways, just hurt learning how to stand on its own.

In college, I met my husband. He was everything God knew I needed—but there was one complication: he was Black. When I found out I was pregnant, fear crept in. Not about motherhood—but about rejection. I was terrified that the same wounds I carried might somehow be passed down to my child.

So I prayed. Hard.

I prayed for a girl.

We hadn’t had a girl in the family in over a decade—just boys everywhere. No pink, no tiny dresses, no bows or braids. But deep down, I believed something more: I believed a daughter might soften my mom’s heart. That maybe, just maybe, this would be the bridge we needed.

At the ultrasound, when the doctor said, “It’s a girl,” my mom started crying. And in that moment, something shifted. She loved my daughter, and my daughter loved her. There was a tenderness there that felt like hope finally breaking through.

But here’s the hard truth—love, by itself, isn’t always enough to build a healthy, functional relationship.

As I stepped into adulthood, I tried to do things differently. When things became difficult, I started putting boundaries in place. I told myself it was healthy—and in many ways, it was

necessary. But what I didn’t realize was that somewhere along the line, those boundaries stopped being about protection and started becoming walls.

I didn’t fully see it until the day I planned a trip to visit my older brother. I was ready to book flights, excited for the time together, when he called and casually said, “Hey, I thought you should know—Mom’s coming too.”

Without hesitation, I canceled the trip.

And the moment I hung up the phone, I felt it—that familiar heaviness settling deep in my chest. It wasn’t stress. It wasn’t inconvenience.

It was resentment.

And just like that, I knew—unforgiveness had quietly made its way back in. Not all at once, but slowly, built over years of small moments and unresolved pain. I had been carrying it without even realizing it.

I blamed her—for not protecting me.

I blamed her—for making me feel ashamed.

I blamed her—for the part of me that was still searching for approval.

It’s true—hurt people hurt people. But it’s also true that healthy people learn how to release that hurt. And I hadn’t. I had built a wall and labeled it a boundary. But the issue was never just the space between us—it was the posture of my heart.

Over time, God began to shift my perspective. What once felt like frustration slowly softened into compassion. I started to see my mom not just through the lens of my pain, but through the reality of hers. Her struggle with identity, the questions she’s carried her entire life—it created confusion, insecurity, and a deep-rooted fear of abandonment. And sometimes, the way she coped with that fear was by pushing people away before they had the chance to leave.

But here’s how I know God is real—how I’ve seen His hand in the middle of all of it.

My mom may not know what her biological parents or siblings look like. She may not have that connection, that reflection. But all five of her children look like her.

Even me.

Even my daughter—with her tan skin and curly hair—carries features that are undeniably my mom’s. It’s as if God, in His kindness, made sure she would never miss seeing herself reflected back.

 

And sometimes, I find myself wishing she could see it the way we always have.

Not just her reflection—but her beauty.

 

Another reason we remain wounded is that pain becomes familiar. When we’ve carried deep or prolonged wounds, the pain—though destructive—can feel like comfort. Healing becomes the unknown, and the unknown can feel frightening.

James 4:17 (NIV) speaks directly into this dynamic: “If anyone, then, knows the good they ought to do and doesn’t do it, it is sin for them.”

It’s one thing to have a wound and not realize it.
It’s another to recognize a wound and begin tending to it.
But Scripture tells us it becomes sinful when we know the wound is there and refuse to let God heal it—choosing instead to let it fester, grow infected, or harden our hearts.

This isn’t about condemning someone for their pain; it’s about acknowledging that refusing healing becomes a spiritual issue. To continue harboring offense, bitterness, or unforgiveness—when we know God is calling us to release it—becomes a sin of the heart.

Psalm 147:3 reminds us of God’s character:
“He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.”
This is who He is—Jehovah Rapha, the God who heals.

Yet healing begins with invitation. Psalm 139:23–24 models this posture:
“Search me, God, and know my heart… see if there is any offensive way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting.”
David isn’t hiding his wounds; he’s asking God to expose them and lead him into healing.

So we must ask ourselves honestly:
If God desires us to live healed—and He has offered that healing—what does it say when we refuse it? Is it not offensive to reject the very gift He suffered to give us?

It’s like offering food in kindness to a hungry man, only to be cursed because it wasn’t money.
Who then is truly the offender?
The one withholding the gift, or the one refusing it?

In the same way, God offers healing, restoration, and freedom. But when pain feels safer than the process, we can end up rejecting the very thing God intends to use to make us whole.

A third reason some believers remain wounded is rooted in pity. If we’re honest, pain can sometimes become familiar—and even useful. It can draw attention, invite sympathy, or secure care we may not know how to ask for any other way. Over time, self-pity can quietly replace healing, convincing us that remaining wounded is safer than risking wholeness. But when pity becomes the goal, it shifts our focus away from restoration and toward dependence, keeping us tethered to the very pain God longs to heal.

Deuteronomy 13:6-8

(6) If your very own brother, or your son or daughter, or the wife you love, or your closest friend secretly entices you, saying, “Let us go and worship other gods” (gods that neither you nor your ancestors have known,

(7) gods of the peoples around you, whether near or far, from one end of the land to the other),

(8) do not yield to them or listen to them. Show them no pity. Do not spare them or shield them.

There is a time and place for compassion and even pity (1 John 3:17) but it’s not when pain has become an idol. God is a God of healing and growth, which also means moving forward through the pain. This does not mean that it won’t take time or require continued revelation as one heals. But we are not called to pity the person who chooses to live in sin or stay in pain and worship the trauma; that is idolatry. Rather, we are called to spend our time and resources assisting the person who needs, asks or accepts help in moving out of pain. 

 

Accepting we ARE healed

One of the hardest parts of healing is understanding that the work was already done. Even if the physical, mental, or emotional hurt is still present, pain and sin have already been spiritually defeated. 

When Jesus teaches the disciples how to pray, he says, “on earth as it is in heaven”… meaning heaven has already accomplished it on earth. 

1 Peter 2:24 anchors healing not in our effort, but in Christ’s finished work: “He himself bore our sins in his body on the cross, so that we might die to sin and live for righteousness; by his wounds you have been healed.” The language is intentional—and decisive.

Notice the tense. You have been healed. Not will be, not might be, but already accomplished. Christ’s suffering was not symbolic; it was final. His wounds secured what our lives could never earn. Before your pain ever surfaced—before you even existed—healing had already been settled in heaven. The cross stands as the moment where His wounds became the answer to your scars.

The verse goes further: He himself bore our sins. Not selectively. Not conditionally. All sin—personal, communal, known, and unknown—was carried in His body. This includes the sins we committed and the sins committed against us. Through the cross, God severed sin’s claim over us, making it possible not just to be forgiven, but to die to sin rather than remain trapped within it. Our role is not to achieve that freedom, but to choose it—to receive what has already been offered.

This is why Hebrews 1:3 matters so deeply. Christ did not merely address individual failures; His death provided purification for sin itself. Complete. Exhaustive. No category excluded. And it is also why Scripture speaks of freedom in the blood (Ephesians 1:7)—because redemption was not partial or delayed, but fully paid.

And yet the question remains: if healing was finished at the cross, why does it often feel unfinished here on earth? Why does what is settled in heaven still require time, surrender, and process in us?

These questions are not new; they echo the same tension the disciples once felt as they watched Jesus move between the eternal and the immediate. Scripture does not avoid this gap between what God has declared and what we are still learning to live out. In Matthew 21, Jesus addresses that very space—where faith meets timing, and where what appears finished in heaven must still be exercised on earth.

 

Matthew 21:20-22

When the disciples saw this, they were amazed. “How did the fig tree wither so quickly?” They asked. 

 Jesus replied, “Truly I tell you, if you have faith and do not doubt, not only can you do what was done to the fig tree, but also you can say to this mountain, ‘Go, throw yourself into the sea’, and it will be done. 

If you believe you will receive whatever you ask for in prayer.

 

Notice the condition Jesus gives: if you have faith and do not doubt. Our response is directly tied to our faith—or more often, to the doubt that quietly undermines it. Doubt does not always look like disbelief; sometimes it simply delays obedience.

Scripture consistently returns to a simple but challenging word: IF.

It is not issued as an ultimatum, but as an invitation. These conditional statements reveal God’s design for how life works when it is aligned with His word. Often, He even gives the reason, so we will want to follow His way rather than resist it.

If you have faith, you have the power to move mountains.
If you believe, you will receive what you ask.

Yet if you are like me, obedience is rarely immediate. I ask why. I ask for more detail. I ask for confirmation—again and again—and then wonder why God feels silent.

If you believe, the question then becomes, believe what?

 

What God said is true

What God has spoken is true—unchanging and authoritative. Jesus makes this unmistakably clear when He declares, “I am the way, the truth, and the life” (John 14:6). He is not offering a suggestion or one option among many; He is defining reality itself.

He is the way—not merely a good path, but the only path that leads to restoration and freedom. The way means the best way and the only way. He is the truth—not shaped by personal opinion, cultural pressure, or shifting moral standards, but grounded in who He is. The truth- not yours, not society’s, but His! And He is the life—a life marked by wholeness, healing, and transformation, not just survival.

When we misunderstand this, we risk misdirecting our faith. Can you tell the difference between the fig tree and the mountain? Are you trying to curse what needs to be moved, or attempting to move what God is calling to die because it bears no fruit?

 

 

Significance of the Fig Tree

Symbolizes life as a part of God’s creation that would live, and the result of that would produce fruit- not some fruit but much fruit (John 15:5-8). But this tree did not produce fruit or show that it was full of life- it did not glorify the creator as His creation. So, Jesus cursed the tree, and it withered. 

 

Significance of the Mountain

A mountain is a large, immovable obstacle that would ordinarily require a nearly impossible journey to cross or maneuver. 

In our lives, we will encounter seasons and challenges that test both the tree and the mountain. When an area is not producing fruit, God tells us He will cut it off. Even what is producing requires pruning—cutting back in order to yield more growth. This work of cutting and pruning belongs to God, and it is most often done internally. Yet just as important, we must allow Him to do it; more often than not, He does not force the process.

What we don’t want is not to be pruned. To wither away from bitterness, stress, unbelief, and all the things God tells us to turn over to him. Look at Jonah; he died out of bitterness under a tree that withered. 

The mountain is an obstacle, usually external, that hinders or detours your journey. This is not something you can control, but an external force coming against you. Here, God calls us to align with Him and speak to the mountain to move, and our Bible tells us it will move (Matthew 21:20-21)

The central truth is this: healing requires our willingness to allow God to work inwardly first. His cutting and pruning are not signs of harm, but essential parts of restoration.

As He works within us, we respond in faith—speaking life to what appears impossible. That outward confession becomes evidence of an inward healing already taking place.

And as God continues to prune, we continue to walk forward—guided by faith rather than by what we see.

 

Struck down but not destroyed

If you learn to continue acting as a warrior when injuries come, you will never be destroyed! 

While you are healing, and most of the time that takes time. This is because battles teach us lessons, and wounds remind us of our humanity; they keep us humble. During this time, we must remember Christ always prevents our destruction, even if we are struck down.

 

2 Corinthians 4:8-10

We are going hard-pressed on every side, yet not crushed; we are perplexed, but not in despair;

persecuted, but not forsaken; struck down, but not destroyed—

always carrying about in the body the dying of the Lord Jesus, that the life of Jesus also may be manifested in our body.

Have you ever watched a fighter go down but continue to get back up again? There is something exhilarating when we see a person refuse to quit. It challenges us in all the good ways to be inspired to do the same. It motivates us to say- If he or she can do it, so can I. It makes us realize that while our body is limited, there is something much bigger inside of me. Something so big that it can defeat and overcome physical limitations.

I wonder what would happen if we started looking at Jesus through the same lens. Yes, he is the lamb- gentle, compassionate, loving, and merciful. But he is also the lion- a superior animal created to conquer, deliver, and destroy the enemy. 

I don’t know about you, but at the end of my life I want others to know I threw everything I could at the fight that was in front of me. I also want others to know my tenacity came from relentlessly pursuing Jesus.

A Warrior’s Prayer

Lord, I come before You as a warrior in need of healing. Thank You for the wounds You have already turned into scars, and for the freedom I have in Christ. Strengthen my heart, renew my mind, and help me to release every pain, fear, and offense into Your hands. Teach me to stand firm in faith, to speak life over my circumstances, and to trust that You are completing the work You began in me. Let my scars testify of Your faithfulness, and may my life bear much fruit for Your glory.
In Jesus’ Name, Amen.

Scriptures for Reference

Isaiah 53:5

Psalm 147:3

2 Corinthians 4:8-9