The swirling cyclonic looking thing that strangely appear’s like a smaller representation of a hurricane, in this some kind of areal distant view in my minds eye, gives it’s ominous representation within the remaining shadowed recesses of my soul. It grant’s a little remaining emotional tug to just turn and run, for not long ago was the time when such approaching dread was enough to send this child scurrying for any dark cave possible.
“Run and hide” was the sirens call, as I used to just flee to a not so safe place, burying my face between my knees, shivering in a pathetic prostate pose. Oh how we quivered in tear drenched face, waiting for the blows to be dispensed across naked body, or it’s filthy hands in his foul stench breath, sick in it’s clammy sweats grip, move across in selfish lust, only taking what she wants, then finally tiring of me, moving past, allowing me once more to relax in shame and disgust. It would leave only the salt sting burning of my swollen eyes, or the dried sweat and dirt that covers the pain it just inflicted.
But not this time! For as I stand and watch it approach, strange as it may seem, there is no thunder in those flashes. Has it always been so?
For this time I stand not alone, but with me is one who lends but a hand.
Two people stand in a parking lot talking, and she feels the pressing of yet again a horde of attackers mounting just to her right, distracting, engaging, beckoning her to run, listen, act, as their increasing calls play across the surface of her mind.
“You don’t understand” she says, as her body language take’s her own arms and wrap’s them around herself once again in a desperate attempt to protect. When everything is saying run, like she has done so many times before, something is grounding her feet against stone, familiar, if but alien in experience, what is good a small sense that rest deep within. She back’s up against the hard surface of the car behind her, feeling the security of the cold metal. If nothing else security of the firm metal.
For these two people the conversation turns not toward’s or away from God, because in and around God every breath’s word seems to flow, for they are both children that have dedicated their lives in every step to that in which the Father would direct, but merely words revealing vision’s into a corner of their live’s that have remained but a remnant of darks past, there ash sit’s giving the enemy but a crack in which to attack.
Just softly she says; “Why does God not give me deliverance, from these attacks?” “For they seem to come over and over, years, and there is nothing I can do.” Every and all possible explanations have been offered, deserving or not, she has tried it all, fighting over and over from the quiet corners of her bedroom as the heartless attackers press in from all sides.
For her companion, his recent victory has, if nothing else, granted him a relief from fear, and this seeming strength is all she needs this time to stand, if in but a mustard seeds size, but in it still hope. For the shadow is playing across her face, even as her legs plant firm, her feet settle in for the crash of wave that is sure to come.
A man of God, his mind desperate in it’s thoughts, trying to comprehend what is happening in the sweet face, and teary eyes of the woman standing before him, difficult from his prospective to understand, for little of no experience has he had draw upon dealing with dark sirens. There is a shadows recognition in his mind as her words pull back the veils of memories not all to long ago forgotten. A lifetime of torment, always from similar source, seemingly attacking when any and all words or thoughts go into any Godly realm, especially within that of his recently found calling.
For him the pull to flee is not one out of fear but frustration, but never the less, strong are the talon’s that claw mercilessly at his flesh, for here again stands woman before him, one his heart has only begun to open up to, and she slams the door in his face with comments of “You don’t understand!”, “You can’t understand!”, “You can’t help me!”.
Pride of a man is a difficult thing, so easy it to run when it’s ugly face stares back at you from the mirror, but this man has also recently learned; that running is never an option for territory The Lord has told you to take.
In his mind those words he has heard many times before, and maybe even yelling back at him from the mirror of his own thought’s; “You’re stupid!”, “I don’t need you!”, “I don’t want you!”. But compassion, a sense of hope, a soft voice in his ear, words of encouragement, peace, potential, ring gently across the surface of his heart, they in turn also prompt him to stand, fight, protect… and he enters into the prayer language with the words of the Holy Spirit.
A soft language, utterances not understood by him or even heard by human ear, yet their meaning in clear; “Lord, grant me strength, wisdom, and clarity of word. Let my words be your words, my thoughts yours, and if possible allow me to enter into battle for her, fully armored, clear in sight of the enemy that I may engage for her. An intercessory onto the battlefield to fight the enemy that oppresses her.”
On the dry battle field of a dark sinister plane, a man stands and looks across a field of ten’s and maybe even a hundred or more attackers, all under a single standard, the gonfalon of jezebel carrying her naked image proudly before them. He is the same man, but noticeable differences rest across his frame, shoulders broader then on earth, for burdens not his own, must be carried. He sets his jaw in prominent resolve, the look of contemplative battle etching strong crevasses that have developed from the veteran experience mark his gaze.
The lines of enemy approach confidently spitting and spouting out their insults, like rotten garbage flying out in indiscriminate bombardment, they bounce ineffectively against his shiny round shield. The enemy assembles in advancing line, they carry black large rectangular shaped shields covered in bloody animal skins of all description, and while they press forward, they hold back in cautious defense, for many of their ranks has she already decimated, and something different is in the air today.
Names, screeched from their black guzzles; nudity, lust, pornography, adultery, lesbianism, seduction, temptress, sex, sex, and more sex, flinging out as bloody spear tips, lunging out in merciless death. There is an almost casual confidence in their attack, for they seem to have been down this road many times before. Casual if it were not for the unknown advisory standing before them, but then again unknown is he not.
Without hesitation, the armor clad warrior of bright reflecting light, bright white and blue glasslike clarity, un-sheath’s sword in a defiant yet thunderous cry. A warriors call of unknown word, yet know down deep with him, and gathering from the look of fright in the faces of the front line, recognized by them as well.
With almost eye-blinking speed he charges a line that now is attempting to spastically interlock shields in fearful desperation. He crashes into the lines as spears snap and bounce off his armor like thin dry twigs split against the chest of a massively strong horse crashing through the brush. Enemy are tossed and flung in horror, the scene is almost comical, reminding an onlooker of similar images when a young child once crashed through a pile of balloons, with such ease did he blast a gaping hole in their lines.
A large crevice has he already made, whirling sword and shield in almost symphonic rhythm, enemy bodies flying in every direction as easy as loose papers would be tossed by a leaf blower. He half expects an attack from his left flank, but as he turns his head to catch a glimpse of that side, he sees her standing, no pressing her own attack there.
She is clad in the most beautiful armor, polished to mirror like shined perfection, light yet strong, long lean girding’s protecting both arm’s and leg’s, she firmly plants her feet on the rocky surface and uses all her strength to press the nearly body length shield before her. The chest plate that protects her frame has a distinctly feminine look to almost terminating into a short skirt around her waist. Tens of enemy are held back as they squirm against the power of her arm and legs, the warrior’s power granted in her, the blood of the lion that flows within.
He almost stops his own attack as he considers the mix of majestic beauty and grace she display’s. Balanced on the delicate movement’s of perfect rhythm, her arm circling with deadly accuracy is followed only by the wisps of her white pure hair swaying softly under her helm. Hard is it to decide if she is laughing or crying, as the roar of the lioness pierces all the minds within ear shot.
As quickly as one slithers or squirms around her defense, bloodily damage is decisively dispensed from her right arm wielding a short but very effective and brightly adorned sword, resulting in an incapacitated carcass depositing yet again at her flank. The enemy is not as eager to attempt to engage in the place their comrades have just fallen.
As both fighters open up a larger and larger gap in the now dwindling horde, a clear light is seen on the other side of the rushing line. Matching in luminosity, to the bodies and armament of our two fighters, the distant yet approaching light quickly grabs the attention of the enemy as well. Just as suddenly a narrow gap opens and with a rush two angels fly through from the other side. In an almost aerial swoop, the two beautiful white blue blazing angels fly past the parting enemy, out to the two battling warriors, they drop glowing vials of clear bright blue and white liquid onto the heads and bodies of these two children, engulfing them even further in a Godly brightness.
Both warriors glance up with smiles on their faces, and it is clear to any observing that the smile are not as much precipitated by the angelic visit, but have already been long on their faces, for they have gotten to a point in the battle where victory is assured and a sort of mopping up feeling has come across their eyes.
As quickly as the prayers leave his lips, the Word of God descends into his heart, and he suddenly is brought to the memory of his own attacks. His, not in words, or voices, relentless, and distracting, but in images. A lifetime of visual attacks.
How long has the images of all of the same attackers haunted him, his whole life, for as long as he can remember, since he was a small child? Wasn’t it only until just recently, only since he has found his calling that victory was granted, that relief from the unending attacks, from the constant bombardment that would always leave him doubting his own faith, strength, and importance to God? Oh how he hates the enemy for what it has done to so many children, including the beautiful daughter standing before him.
A soft yet strong voice speaks in his mind and heart, and as quick, he repeats the word for both of them to hear, if but for the first time;
“Find your calling, your mountain calling, that which you were designed from even the beginning of time, and much will be the reward.” Soft is the smile of recognition in her eye.
“”The first reward granted is in the form of “Deliverance” from your enemies.”
“You will see not only your enemies flee from you, but when you take your mountain, your kingdom, the amount of enemy attacks will go down significantly.”
“So was it with me!” he says, as he marvels at the beautiful peace that crosses her face almost instantaneously.
What was just a moment ago a frown of worry across her brow, frustration lining her mouth, even swollen wet anger in her eyes, is suddenly replaced with a soft smooth hope across her lovely face, tearing eyes with the glimmer of joy. Bright, clear, a gentle touch of a smile just beginning to erupt from the heart that beats life within.
She knows the words are true because she hears them herself as well. They speak of soft dream’s deja vu she but dared to hope true.
“Wow,” he almost erupts in laugh, “that is so incredible, the things that have tormented me my whole life, were the very spirits that we have just learned have held us both back from finding out mountain calling” he says with increasing excitement. Not even as much to tell her but to also realize in himself, and maybe to one day tell others who are close.
They both quickly explode in a interchange of words and ideas; “The seven mountains;
Family (including relationships, children, friends) are tormented and held back by abandonment,
Religion (any and all callings into the ministry) is attacked with pride,
Business (including all jobs, work in public, business) receives torment by greed,
Government (including all ruling authority, police, military, civil service) they can be held back by corruption,
Education (teachers, students, even schools) their biggest obstacle is humanism,
Media (including news, television reporting, journalism) their giant is fear,
And finally The Arts (including anything creative; fine art, music, acting, dance, cooking, writing) they are tormented by immorality.”
Find your mountain calling, that one area you have been destined, designed from beginning to fulfill, and you probably will find you have had the greatest torment your entire life in and around the sin of said demon, who would discourage you the same.
“It wasn’t only at the moment that I found my mountain, my calling, and thank God He actually told it to me, but I needed to start working in it, dedicating it to Him utterly and completely, then and only then, did I also suddenly realized I had taken dominion over it, and the enemy fled.”
The awareness came across both of them almost simultaneously, for they both know the story, the efforts lately within the calling of God, but the revelation descended upon them like a vial of pure liquid wisdom, flowing down their heads across their bodies and right into every part of their being. So does wisdom from God flow through a child, strengthening, healing and birthing his bride anew.
Looking back it is not all that difficult to see in which area an individual may have been tormented almost as long as they can remember. Or possibly showing up as the first sin they have witnessed in this world, maybe seen in others, most likely though the hands or words of their parents. Seeing and experiencing these continued yet subtle attacks can shake and crack the very foundations we should have had built in our life. Those which were designed out of a sanction of love, they become a cracked surface we stumble over. We do live in a fallen world.
In most cases it could turn them, even at an early age, from desiring the very area God would have them take dominion, that single mountain he has given them, everything He has given them, every talent, every skill, every life’s experience, turning every storm into good, every sin into experience to help others, so they could be absolutely the best at the one thing He would have them do, in the entire world.
So complete is the agenda of the enemy, and also the insight to his ever younger attack on our children. And while the enemy is not omnipotent, he can recognize those attributes given even in the supernatural, realizing the drastic effect such attribute could wield against his dark kingdom.
Many examples of friend’s and family come to mind; a daughter, a best friend who has been abandoned since before they can remember, from those who should have given the most stability and love, result; an inability to establish and keep meaningful and endearing relationship’s, until the point where the thought of family just doesn’t fit any longer in their life.
A father raised in greed, where enormous talents and skill of lifetime’s success in business lead’s only to loneliness and despair, for the single question remains; “for what purpose did he even live?”
Teacher being forced to teach, that people are but an accident, insignificant, evolved, then wonder why they lose hope when looking at the faces of the children who have none.
Preachers, ministers, a child with a calling from her youth, an apostles calling, but when pride doesn’t allow her to hand the mike and listen to the derelict God has chosen to give a word to, she misses the greatest gift of her life, her mountain top victory.
How many people have gone into government office with the purest of intentions just to be corrupted by the magnitude of power, and left but a dark shell, a burnt cinder, of the man that went in? Probably not nearly as many, that have turned away from the calling because of the corruption they have witnessed their whole lives’.
How many news reporter’s have manipulated millions with fear, in the stead of building people up with hope and faith?
Actors, Actresses, artist’s, musician’s, writer’s, who have fallen short of what God would have had them become, because of distractions, and destruction of immorality. And on it goes.
Two warrior’s now stand next to each other, breathing hard from the exertion, their fleshly bodies will soon feel the exhaustion the souls have wielded, but laughing heartily as the beaten horde retreats squealing like pigs, tails tucked, running for the dark tree’s on the edge of the field. The remaining wounded are bound “in the name of Jesus” and with hardly a word, disappear into the void as quickly as the subtle words dance across God’s children their beautiful lips. They can almost hear the cries of frustration ringing from the tree’s as the leader’s bellow in sorrow, for defeat will be almost as painful as the binding and banishment their comrades have suffered.
Two tall magnificent warriors look on over a field together, swords sheathed, and shield at their side, standing strong in the faith that c