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The Good Fight


The older I get, the less impressed I am about all manner of things. The pool of things I find impressive is ever-shrinking, and I think this is a feeling shared by many. Remember when a cute cat video made us laugh uproariously for hours on end? Maybe we were more innocent, maybe we still thought of laughter as being the best medicine instead of Oxy, but nowadays it takes the nearly impossible just to make us smirk. Gone are the days of a cat chasing a laser pointer; now we need bears riding unicycles on a flaming high wire while juggling seals to make us hit the share button.


One thing that still impresses me consistently is scars. I show no deference to resplendent armor, crimson capes, or wavy plumes, but when I spot someone with bruises, scars, welts, and dents, I am impressed. It tells me that not only did the individual not back down from battle, but that they fought the good fight, and though the enemy might have gotten a few good blows in, they did not lay down their sword and surrender.


I would rather go into battle with someone who looks like they survived a wood chipper by my side than someone in couture armor. I went to a renaissance fair once; they had pretty costumes too.


My only concern when going into battle is whether or not the persons to my left and my right can fight. That’s it! I don’t care that you macramé on the weekends, or that you knitted booties for your six kittens. 

Do you know how to fight? Can you take a blow? Do you know how to use the weapons in your arsenal? Will you get back up if you get knocked on your backside, or will you stay down for the count? Are you in this for your own glory, or the glory of the King?


There are many faux warriors roaming the landscape today who show up to the battlefield only to showcase themselves. They come so others might see how shiny their armor, or how intricate their new crest. Such souls I have no patience for, because when it comes time to fight, they will do their utmost to avoid it.


Be sure, that if the battle goes your way, and the day is won, those who cowered in the back or played possum will be the first to take credit for the great victory, or spin a yarn that will make them out to be the bravest of the brave who singlehandedly pushed back the enemy.


True warriors don’t talk about fighting; they fight. Once the battle is done, they bind their wounds, patch up their armor, sharpen their swords, and get back to it. Never once have I heard someone who has been to war regale others of their bravery in combat. I have, however, heard individuals bragging about killing the enemy, even though they were on another continent, watching real warriors doing it on a television monitor.


We don’t tell war stories because the war isn’t over. We don’t whoop and holler and pat each other on the back for today’s win, because we are still behind enemy lines, and tomorrow is another day. The enemy is not vanquished, his forces are still advancing, and those who fight understand that we have more important things to do than praise ourselves or seek out vainglory.

With love in Christ,
Michael Boldea Jr.

Posted on 19 October 2019 | 11:45 am

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