Sometimes I love the worship at my church. Sometimes I… don’t. But personal musical preferences aside, I quite frequently grow emotional during worship, as it’s one of the ways I best connect with God.

Recently during church, I was moved to tears — but not in the usual way. This time, I felt angry. And my anger only grew as the song went on.

The worship leaders sang the repeating chorus, “This is how I fight my battles.” The meaning, as far as I understand it, is that we fight our earthly battles with confidence in a supernatural Lord who loves us and never leaves us. We can endure and even overcome challenges through faith and prayer. This, they sang, is how we fight our battles. Over and over they sang those words in the calmest voices.

I’d heard the song before. I’d sung the song before, and it had been encouraging! But on this particular day, I was not having it. Instead of singing along, I wanted to scream.

Oh, that’s how you fight your battles, is it? IS IT? Just that simple, right? Think positive thoughts and all of a sudden life is manageable? I guess if I’m struggling, I must have forgotten that God is with the brokenhearted, that He will never leave or forsake me. Is that it? My faith must be small if my battle seems big, huh?

These thoughts, these cries of my heart, came fast and furious. But while a storm raged inside me, the pleasant music continued playing as if those women and men on stage hadn’t a care in the world. They’d fought their battles, after all — so it seemed.

Now, it’s quite possible that the song didn’t play on a loop for an interminable amount of time, the way I felt it did.

It’s probable that the music wasn’t nearly as happy, simple, life-is-good-and-easy as I felt it was.

And I recognize, truly I do, that every other person singing that morning may have experienced the song in a meaningful way.

The way my brain and heart interpreted it, though? It sounded like a broken record of a smiling children’s choir chirping, “Jesus Loves Me” — not from hearts weathered by war, but from ones that had never even seen a battlefield.

The notes were in tune, but to me, the whole thing was tone deaf.

I’m not criticizing the worship team at my church now, nor did I on the day the battle song stoked my internal rage. They’re great, for the record! But what I knew in that moment and have continued to think about is that while it may sometimes be enough to meditate on an encouraging verse or sing a chorus at a completely calm, acceptable volume, often our battles require so much more.

Sometimes what we’re facing is too much to bear. Even with all the faith we can muster in a good God who loves us. Even with the support of a community, with a Bible full of verses, and a heart full of song. Even with the hope of eternity, we can sometimes be overcome with grief or rage or fear. Or all of the above. It’s still too much.

When that happens, we may lose our voice for praising the Lord in song. But while that’s certainly been my experience at times, leaving me speechless and soaked in tears during worship, that wasn’t how I felt on this particular day.

When I heard those words, “This is how I fight my battles,” I wanted to growl. I wanted to scream and groan and maybe even spit a little. I wanted someone (the Lord, but also maybe a friend a few rows up or my husband standing next to me) to hear my pain and understand its depth. I wanted my shredded insides to be reflected in the sounds that came out of my mouth.

Emily Dickinson famously wrote that “hope is the thing with feathers.” She described hope as a bird singing through the storm, a sweet tune that kept her warm and never asked anything of her. And maybe that’s how hope feels to some of us, some of the time.

But hope is also a locked jaw that won’t quite close after another night spent holding back sobs. It’s a fire that rages one minute, then is all but doused the next, leaving just one pitiful spark to cast light into the weighted blanket of darkness.

Hope is the gravel in a voice that’s screamed in an empty car, and it’s the twitching eye that betrays a desperate attempt at, “Fine, how are you?”

Hope is a straightened spine and a bended knee. It’s shaking hands and a fierce hug. It’s the gulping of water like a dog run ragged and it’s the cardinal that flies into my office window over and over again, refusing to accept that he cannot break through the glass.

If you’re barely hanging on today and this version of hope sounds familiar, you’re not alone.

There are many of us with deep faith and clenched fists. We’re fighting brutal battles with busted knuckles and weary arms and hoarse voices.

Maybe your battle cry doesn’t sound like a song right now. Maybe it’s a scream, a sob, or the silence between shallow breaths. That’s okay. That still counts. That is how you fight your battles. And even there, the Father surrounds you.

 

Listen to Mary’s devotion below or wherever you stream podcasts.

And be sure to share with someone who needs a dose of gritty hope. 

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