Why Satan Will Never Win
Not long ago, my sixteen-month-old daughter left most of her face on the sidewalk. In her clumsy, top-heavy way, she ran—more like quickly staggered—down the cement path after her older sister. And, in her clumsy, top-heaviness, she fell face-first into the gravel.
Blood poured from her face in a runway strip from her forehead to her chin. But her nose…her nose had pretty much been wiped off completely and left behind on the ground.
The tiny girl wailed in my arms, rubbing her bloody, tear-soaked face into my chest.
What the heck was I supposed to do? I don’t have a medical degree. I don’t know how to stitch a nose back onto a crying toddler’s face.
So, I just held her. I whispered into her ear that things would be all right. I did my best to comfort her.
Sooner than I’d anticipated, her crying stopped and she pointed back to the sidewalk.
“You want to go play again?” I asked, half-shocked, half-impressed.
“Yeah,” she sniffled.
I set the girl on her feet, much to my delight, and she took off. Even freer and bolder than before.
The rest of the day, it was difficult to look at her. The wounds not only bled, but developed a sheen of bodily ooze. A shiny layer of rawness.
A scab began to form later that very day.
I imagined what her body must be doing. How hard it must be working. How platelets must be rushing to the scene, building a bridge across the cut to stop the bleeding. How white blood cells must be racing in afterward, cleansing the injury and continuing the healing process. How skin cells regenerated—I mean, completely grew back!—to cover the once injured area.
Our bodies are amazing.
I didn’t have to do anything. I didn’t need a medical degree to fix my daughter’s wounds. I just had to let her body do its thing.
Now, weeks later, the scab has fallen away and has been replaced by a pale pink patch of new skin. But my daughter frequently reminds me of the pain she experienced.
“Boo boo,” she says with her saddest face as she points to her nose.
“Yes, you had a boo boo,” I say, now finally able to look at her without wincing. “But is it getting better?”
“Well praise God!”
And we do. We thank God for making our bodies something that can heal—and heal themselves, no less! We thank God for making our pain temporary. And we thank God for the memory of the pain so that we can grow stronger from it.
Like my daughter, I also find myself sorrowfully pointing to my boo-boos. Especially my rawest, most recent one. I rub my fingers over the three scars that form a triangle on my abdomen. Feel the tiny bump of scar tissue bulging underneath.
And though the scars will forever be a reminder of loss, they will also be a tremendous reminder of gain. Of being totally emptied of myself so that I could be filled with something greater.
They are a reminder of how I healed. Not in the physical sense, though that did happen (praise God). But in the spiritual sense.
I didn’t have to imagine what the body of Christ was doing. I witnessed it with my own eyes. How hard it was working. How hard YOU were working. How YOU were the platelets rushing to the injury. How YOU became the white blood cells that purged me of uncleanliness. How YOU helped me regenerate, rebuild, and completely grow back.
The body of Christ is amazing.
I didn’t have to do anything. I didn’t need a theological degree to fix my broken spirit. I just had to let the body of Christ do its thing.
So why will Satan never win?
Because of you.
Because of God working through you.
Because of your hugs, your stories, your love. Like blood cells rushing to the wound to eliminate the pain. To heal, to recover, to nurse back to health. To resurrect.
Because that’s what God does. First, He did it Himself. Now He does it through you.
My wound had been as emotional as it had been physical, and you, like surgeons to my soul, pieced me back together until I was stronger than I had been before.
One incident. One huge loss. Thousands of spiritual blood cells.
So thank you. Thank you for your texts, your phone calls, your hugs. Thank you for the meals, the flowers, the babysitting. The shared tears. The shared stories of grief, weaving themselves together into one big, beautiful blanket that connects us and comforts. Thank you for so clearly revealing God’s sacred heart.
Because the truth is, together we are a body. We are one body. The body of Christ.
I have been held and comforted. And now, sooner than I’d anticipated, I find myself pointing back to the path I was on, ready to try again. Eager to give it another go.
So my Father sets me on my feet again, and I take off. Even freer and bolder than before.