Fierce Beauty Read online

  I rounded the base of the slope. As expected, the difference in my poles was exacting a brutal toll. I felt as if a burning knife had been plunged between my shoulder blades. Every stride, accompanied by raising my arms over my head and driving my poles into the ice, fanned the searing heat up my neck and through the back of my skull.

  Whether it was the compounded traumas of the day or seeing the hoofs of an incensed moose flash past my head, once I started up the flank of the rising slope, my entire body felt as if it were being consumed by an internal inferno. Because the first pitch of the hill did not deviate left or right but rose straight up, my heart rate soared with it.

  Never in my life had I felt a lactic-acid buildup cause a more agonizing muscle burn. The pain was so intense I was certain that any minute my quadriceps would combust into flames! With a fleeting glimpse I looked down to see if my Lycra was melting off. Instead, I saw something just as troubling on my right thigh—blood.

  A quick swipe of my gloved fist under my nose revealed the source. Apparently the strain of the day had taken a greater toll than I’d realized. Vessels in my nose had burst under the tension and were streaming bright-red blood down my face. Having never suffered a spontaneous nosebleed in my life, I was left to wonder—again—Why, of all days, would it be today?

  Worn down by the smorgasbord of difficulties, negative thoughts began to hammer my heart like a battering ram. Together they worked to crush my resolve. Lord, what am I doing here? Why am I even still trying? After working for so long, I never thought it would turn out like this.

  My race was an absolute disaster. I’m exhausted and traumatized. I feel broken and alone … My strength is gone … My hope is gone … There’s nothing redeeming about any of this … Who on earth really cares? Nothing that I’ve done even matters, none of it. I should just quit!

  From this private incinerator of agony and under full emotional attack, I glanced up the hill. Startled by a movement, I quickly looked up again. I was surprised to see a heavily bundled figure standing alone. This person was perched approximately one hundred yards above me, near the course. Because all the other race officials had left—including the moose sweepers—I was perplexed about this one resolute soul who remained.

  It was a woman. She was dressed in a large, light-colored snowmobile suit. She held a clipboard in her heavily gloved hands and was apparently the last of those who kept a tally, making sure that every racer skied every loop. Standing like a sentry on a small shelf that had been kicked into the side of the hill, she looked down on me with an unwavering gaze.

  I can only imagine what she must have thought as she watched me lurch up one of the most grueling hills in the park, breathing like a steam engine and smeared with blood. What a pitiful image of a biathlete, one who was most certainly lost, certainly alone, certainly struggling to make it.

  In accordance with the events of the day, I waited for her to say something obvious such as, “Girl, you look like death on a cracker!” Or, more in keeping with the attitude of others, I expected she would ignore me altogether.

  She did neither.

  Among all her choices to malign and despise, she chose none. Nor did she look away. Instead, the solitary woman watched me intently.

  As I closed the distance between us, a final thought fell to the floor of my soul: Lord, on this day I don’t think I can bear any more.

  When I was a dozen yards away, the woman looked down at her clipboard, presumably to write my bib number on her list. Looking back up, she fixed her eyes on mine and muttered, “Good job, number seventy-seven.”

  Surprised, I stared at her, not really sure if I’d heard her right. In my haggard state I wasn’t certain she was really talking to me … encouraging me?

  Our eyes locked.

  Again she spoke in a serious tone. “C’mon, girl, you can do it. Get up this hill.” It took a moment for me to realize that she was … cheering. for me.

  Unable to speak, I flashed a bloody smile. She smiled back. “C’mon, seventy-seven! Fight! Fight!” I watched in amazement as she bit off one glove and then the other. Sacrificing her own comfort in the bitter cold, she began to clap her bare hands so I could hear them. “Go, seventy-seven. Go! C’mon!”

  Fueled by her encouragement, I skied past her and winked. Clapping as hard as she could, she continued to cheer for me as I climbed up and away and into the forest above. Far below I could hear her voice ringing through the trees: “Gooooo, girl! Gooooo! Don’t you ever quit!”

  As if spoken by an angel, her voice echoes in my heart to this day. Because on that day, I know I heard the voice of my King.

  Spectators and officials had abandoned the finish line. I was the last to complete the race. I crossed the line and collapsed in the icy snow. While heaving to catch my breath, a lone race official appeared and stepped over my sprawled skis on his way to the range. He looked back over his shoulder and called, “Sorry, I thought the race was already over.”

  Struggling to catch my breath, I lay nearly motionless for long moments. Tears slid across my face and disappeared into the snow.

  Once the fire subsided and my breath returned, I scrubbed the blood off my face with a handful of snow, pulled on my warmups, and skated back down the hill through the forest.

  I wanted to thank the one and only soul who sought to encourage me.

  When I reached her post, nothing remained but the small ledge upon which she’d stood. Even though I searched for her throughout the rest of the week-long race series, I never saw her again.

  She will never know how the gift she gave me that day has permanently changed my life.

  NEVER QUIT

  A warrior is not distracted by the entanglements of this life. She answers God’s call to fix her eyes and her energy on running hard to the end of the race … where her King awaits.

  Years to ponder have given me a perspective that I’ve grown to love and appreciate. I can no longer think about the race in Anchorage without also considering how it perfectly captured the truth in the Bible’s book of Hebrews, chapters 11 and 12. The author of Hebrews sets the stage by simply asking, “What is faith?” He then answers his own question with the reply, “It is the confident assurance that what we hope for is going to happen. It is the evidence of things we cannot yet see” (Hebrews 11:1).

  Next, he paints an unforgettable picture of remarkable, beautiful, diverse individuals whose lives demonstrated true faith. By faith, men and women did extraordinary things for the love of their King. By faith, they led nations, defeated vast enemies, and walked through oceans on dry land. By faith, they shut the mouths of lions, quenched the flames of fire, and escaped death by the edge of a sword.

  By faith, their weakness was turned into strength.

  Also by faith others preferred to die rather than turn from God. They placed their hope in the Resurrection. Some were mocked, beaten, chained, and whipped. Some died by stoning and the sword. Some were sawed in two. Others were hungry, oppressed, and mistreated and lived in terrible circumstances. They were too good for this world. All these people received our King’s approval because of their faith. Yet none of them received all that God has promised:

  For God had far better things in mind for us that would also benefit them, for they can’t receive the prize at the end of the race until we finish the race. Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a huge crowd of witnesses to the life of faith, let us strip off every weight that slows us down, especially the sin that so easily hinders our progress. And let us run with endurance the race that God has set before us. We do this by keeping our eyes on Jesus, on whom our faith depends from start to finish. (Hebrews 11:40–12:2)

  Friends, no matter how difficult this race of life gets and how lonely we might feel, we are not alone in our struggles.

  Every believer who has ever lived is poised and watching. Just like that woman on the hill in Anchorage, they are cheering, shouting, praying, screaming, clapping, and doing “the wave” in an effort to continually
encourage us—you—to keep going, to finish well, to never quit.

  Like an Olympic runner carrying the torch, believers have passed truth to other believers down through the ages. Now they encourage you to run this flaming message of truth all the way home. They cheer as a direct reflection of the One who leads them all. Jesus Christ directs this heavenly assembly with shouts of victory, whispers of encouragements, peals of knowing laughter, and songs of comfort. He does this by constantly reassuring each of us that He—our King—is right beside us step for step, stride for stride to the very end.

  As Christian women, we’re not racing for ourselves but for all believers. Every stride we take toward our King brings us closer to completing the work of faith that all the righteous men and women before us began long ago. This magnificent picture of glory will not be complete until each of us is faithful to finish the race.

  Only then will we all receive the prize. Only then will the bride of Christ be complete.

  This race is so much bigger than what we see in the mirror. Every narrow-minded step toward our own desires takes us off course. Each selfish stride leads us away from those we were sent to serve, the huge crowd of witnesses who are encouraging us home, and most of all … our King.

  Now is the time to stay focused on what’s truly important: faithfully racing toward our God.

  Like skiers on fresh snow, we all leave tracks in this life. Our every word and action marks a course for others to follow. Make no mistake, in your own unique way, you were designed to lead those around you who are staggering in exhaustion.

  Because of what Christ has done for you, you are completely equipped to do much more for others than you ever thought possible: “So take a new grip with your tired hands and stand firm on your shaky legs. Mark out a straight path for your feet. Then those who follow you, though they are weak and lame, will not stumble and fall but will become strong” (Hebrews 12:12–13). Each of us is called to help lead those around us to finish this battle of faith.

  Within this race of giving, leading, falling, and bleeding, each of us will know loops of deep sorrow and grief. We will all experience hills that grind us well beyond the ability to eat and sleep. These are the times when God alone is our comfort and strength.

  Although we might feel too weak to fight on, we are never too weak to lean on Him.

  Often it is in our seasons of greatest breakage that God’s greatest strength, love, joy, and mercy are revealed. Despite my best efforts in the biathlon race, I’m certain I finished in last place, the position of greatest shame and scorn. But when we choose to relinquish our desire to compete for ourselves in exchange for a higher calling of running the race of faith for our King, everyone wins.

  Since my difficult biathlon experience, I’ve learned that no matter what phase of life’s race I’m in, if I quiet my thoughts and still my heart, I can hear the voice of my King calling, Run, girl. Run! Every step of faith you take brings you closer to Me. When you cross the finish line, you will run right into My arms. Keep running, child! Don’t you ever quit!

  18

  THE BATTLE

  For the King Alone

  It was now well past midnight, and I was still working in my perch at the top of our ranch property. I was hoping to finish a time-sensitive project before morning. Reaching both fists toward the ceiling, I indulged in a long-overdue stretch.

  Wanting to relax my head for a moment, I silenced the taskmaster of focused thought and allowed my mind to roam. It wasn’t long before the likeness of the woman returned. Before, her image had seemed diffused, her form softly shifting. But now she appeared with living sharpness and clarity.

  She’s free. She is standing right before me, with me.

  Looking up, she blinks her eyes in astonishment, as if seeing for the very first time. Her gaudy clothing was burned away when she chose the sword of righteousness. Now she wears a simple tunic, boots, and a sturdy leather belt accompanied by leather cuffs and greaves. Her hair gleams with a glory beyond color. Her chest is covered by a breastplate of unearthly metal. Although it is steely in appearance, dazzling light passes through it, the same radiance still emanating from the center of her body and illuminating the area around her.

  With the long sword clutched in her right hand, the new warrior inhales deeply, breathing in the very light that streams from her chest. While doing so, her eyes began to shine as never before, filling with the truth of her King.

  Voices of furious and frightened wickedness hiss all around her: “She’s awake! Run!” “Her real eyes are open! Find reinforcements!” “She’s just made the decision to start doing what she’s learned from the Book. She’s tapped into the Source. Get help now!” “This one’s fully committed … She’s gonna be dangerous!”

  Her thoughts are now so strong they can be seen in her actions. Swinging her sword in wide arcs, the warrior feels its balance, its eternal power. She understands the purpose of this weapon: to herald hope, fight for the weak, and cut a path through the blackness for the love of God to flow. This blade is the very Word of her King, and it is a part of her now.

  Awareness is building within her. Slowly she realizes that what she does under pressure defines what she truly believes. Her focus lifts, moving beyond the things, the distractions of this world. Now she looks directly at her foes and actually sees them. She recognizes her enemies for what they truly are. With a new and unwavering authority, she points her sword at the shadowy figures that surround her and commands, “No one can serve two masters. Leave … now!”

  A voice, dripping with evil, responds, “I don’t think so, princess!”

  Once fearful, she is now fearless. She raises her blade and steps toward her black adversaries. “I’m taking back this ground,” she growls through clenched teeth, “in the name of Jesus Christ!”

  The filthy smirking of her enemies is cut off the instant they hear the Name. As if the mere sound of it burns, they scream and cower, covering their ears as they back away.

  The warrior takes a step forward, then another. Each stride repels the armies of darkness. Every well-placed blow of her sword only makes it sharper. Soon she’s cut a path to the front lines and is fighting shoulder to shoulder with other warriors of the Living God.

  The air fills with the foul stench of rancid wickedness. Flames rise before her but give no light. They burn but do not destroy. What was sent to incinerate her instead tempers and strengthens her. She senses the great enemies of demonic blackness rushing in to destroy her. She engages them, swords clashing and sparking with each strike. Though she can’t see them, the warrior realizes other soldiers of light are close by. She also knows she must defend the territory the King has entrusted only to her.

  Through the darkness she shouts to the others, “The swarms of darkness can have no more … Hold the line!”

  She hears the deafening clatter of countless swords engaged in a struggle for life and death. The breastplate of her King’s light, love, and life illuminates the dim theater around her. She fights with everything she has: heart, soul, mind, and strength.

  Suddenly steel flashes on her left. She feels intense pain in her side. The warrior acknowledges the wound, but knowing her King was once wounded for her, she does not shrink back. She presses in and continues to fight.

  Her sword moves in blurring arcs of light. Hiding in the shadows, her enemies are everywhere. The surrounding gloom is filled with arrows, clubs, stones, and fists, all trying to kill her.

  Yet she does not retreat.

  The warrior comprehends that no matter how much blood she sheds, no matter if she is on the verge of losing her mortal life, she will keep fighting as long as she has breath. She stands firm, knowing how this war will end! Swinging and slashing, ducking and dodging, striking, kicking, choking, clawing, she will not quit—ever.

  The slithering hordes of darkness close in. The black horizon moves with their infinite number. The warrior is weary and wounded, yet she continues to fight the evil plague that seeks to en
gulf all mankind. She slashes through more couriers of pride, fear, immorality, injustice, disease, famine, and lies. Blood from a gash on her forehead mixes with sweat and flows into her eyes. She strains to see through the burning red haze.

  She takes another step forward. From out of the blackness, a club smashes against her temple. Stunned by the strike, she stumbles and falls to one knee. Blood surges down her breastplate, flowing over her irrepressible light of hope. The wicked swarm descends upon her, pummeling the fallen warrior with their fists. Struggling to stand, she pushes up beneath their staggering numbers. She strains with all her might but falls back to the shadowy earth.

  As her knees hit the cold, sucking mire, a thunderous boom splits the air.

  The distant horizon flashes in a horizontal bolt of electric light. Suddenly the clash of armor and blades ceases. All becomes silent.

  Every eye turns toward the growing radiance. Burning away the darkness, stabs of intense light rise like glorious arrows straight into the sky. Shimmering like luminous rivers, they swallow up the gloom.

  Pure light is approaching … It’s the glory of her King!

  In the remaining blackness, screams of shock and horrified curses spew from the lips of cringing demons. Wicked, clawed hands lose their grip and start to withdraw in terror. A downpour of enemy weapons falls like an evil, metallic rain. The demonic army retreats in a panicked stampede. The morbid air fills with the putrid gasps of demons trying to flee the radiant justice of the Lamb of God. Gathering fearful momentum, they clamber and trample over one another in their desperate attempt to escape.