Today I have the pleasure of sharing a piece from my friend Joshua Barella, Worship Director at our church, New Life Bible Fellowship. I know you’ll be blessed. ~John Beeson
But when you pray, go into your room and shut the door and pray to your Father who is in secret. And your Father who sees in secret will reward you (Matt. 6:6).
One of the points Pastor Greg Lavine a while ago regarding the fruits of Jesus' staunch prayer life made me recall one of my first encounters with the bounty of the Lord's blessing through this discipline.
I was in the service, away at Boot Camp, and I'd discovered that the only place I could gain some reprieve from the grindstone was at church on Sunday mornings. Much like the rest of the troop who figured it out, I squeezed into the pews, one bald head in fatigues among a throng of bald heads in fatigues. The chaplain sermonized over the importance of perseverance, and at the end of the service, slapped a Bible in each of our hands. I took to reading that Bible every night after lights out—the first time I ever opened one intentionally in my life. It was such a foreign concept to me that I just read it like every other book I ever had: slowly and meticulously, consuming every word and phrase. I don't think I ever made it past Genesis.
One of the most essential skills they teach you during Boot is rifle marksmanship. To graduate you must demonstrate that you can satisfactorily qualify with your weapon on the range. I could hold the rifle like a soldier, run around during field exercises like I knew what I was doing—like every other Joe I saw in the movies playing Army—but when it came time to post up on my lane and fire 40 carefully aimed rounds downrange, I wasn't worth my salt. Not in the least. To qualify you had to hit a minimum of 27 out of the 40 targets. I spent all day on that range and never made it above 24.
At the end of that first day they took the strugglers aside and informed us that we'd have one more chance in the morning to prove we could qualify on our rifles, otherwise we'd be kicked back to another platoon to try again, as soon as the following cycle pushed through—in 6 weeks. Until then we'd be holdovers. And all I could think about was Lauren, my beautiful bride—we were just married. And we were struggling. Correction, I was struggling, with addiction and self-worth and identity, and I left her to go and prove to the world that I wasn't completely washed-up and still had something to offer. And yet, the only thing I'd learned up to that point in the military was just how much I missed her.
And so failure wasn't an option.
That night I pulled fire-guard duty, and as the rest of the bay slept I huddled under the paltry red glow of the EXIT sign with my Bible and prayed: on my hands and knees, face pressed to the cold tile—it was all I could do. The other guys, on the bus ride back to the barracks, they tried to encourage me, telling me that I would make the cut, that they had faith in me, but something in my heart said otherwise. Something told me that I couldn't. Not without help. But who would give it?
The God of Abraham.
I prayed to him with such desperation, beseeching his aid, and whatever form that took, I would graciously receive it, so long as come morning I “qualed," and was that much closer to home, to seeing Lauren again. I must have prayed that prayer a hundred times.
It was all I could do.
Come morning, hope had welled up inside me like a balloon. I walked with a confidence that I didn't have before. I was at peace. I stepped up to my lane, loaded my magazine, switched off my safety and prepared to fire. I took a deep breath and then exhaled. My lane was hot. The targets began to pop up and I sighted my first green silhouette and squeezed the trigger.
A spray of dirt as the round hit the berm.
The target remained unmoved. Seconds later it dropped of its own accord. It's okay I told myself. Next one. But that next one rose, and then the next one, and the one after that, all with the same outcome: spray of dirt; target unmoved. When I swapped magazines I had all but given up, that balloon very nearly deflated. In my head I counted my contacts--maybe 23. I was dejected by the end. Head hung low. I grabbed my gear and left the range, joining my platoon in the backfield, awaiting my cadre to come and deliver the dreadful news.
Only, when he came, he said: "I don't know how you did it Barella. But you qualed. 28."
What?! My heart soared. This God of Abraham had answered my prayers. What divine mercy. What a miracle.
But not in the way I thought.
As we were clearing out, making our final sweep of the range, picking up brass, one of my battles approached me. Thoreson. Not even an acquaintance. He said, "Hey, Barella, I shot your targets. I was in lane 7. Other side of the tower. I was ahead on my lane and I just used my last 5 and shot your targets. Tower didn't see. I don't know, I just shot 'em."
Whatever you do, however you do it, "pray without ceasing" (Thes. 5:17).
"I waited patiently for the Lord; he inclined to me and heard my cry" (Ps. 40:1).
What a friend we have in Jesus; " . . . a very present help in time of trouble" (Ps. 46:1).
Take my word for it: the Lord provides for his people. He is listening. What mountain needs moving in your life? Have you prayed in earnest? Are you at the end of yourself?
Pray, and the One who created you, will give an answer, and usually not in the way you expect.
Praise Our rock, Our salvation—Our guide—now and forevermore.
Your friend,
Joshua
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Photo by Luis Wittenberg on Unsplash