What Torrential Flooding in Honduras has to do with David and Goliath
The images and stories that are flooding out of Honduras are breaking me. Waist high water, stories of destruction, destitution, and death. And while the city of Siguatepeque is starting to resemble an ocean, I’m an ocean away. In a dorm room. Incapable of helping. Unable to do anything but pray. And that feeling is one of the loneliest, most painful that has ever flooded my body.
But it is also a lie straight from the pit of Hell.
Last night I found myself screaming out to God “why is the only thing I can do pray? I can only pray! Why can’t I do anything!?”
I was feeling helpless. But I shouldn’t have. “Only praying” is one of the lies that The Enemy continues to throw at me, and one I continually believe. For there is nothing insignificant about freely entering into The Throne Room of the Creator God.
I know The Lord has called me to learn Spanish, and He has been so faithful to reveal Himself to me in that. One of the things I have learned is the value of prayer. In Spanish, the word for “I pray” and “gold” is the same: oro. There is nothing insignificant about prayer. It is worth far more than gold, and how privileged I am to have the ability to commune and communicate with The One who knit me together in my mother’s womb. Who knit the people of Siguatepeque together in their mothers’ wombs.
Last night as I was spending time with my Jesus, I felt lead to 1 Samuel 17: the story of David and Goliath.
At first glance, this story has nothing to do with the flooding in Honduras, and I was confused. But like always, God met me right where I was, and taught me something new from this story that I have been familiar with since I was a toddler.
David was a teenaged shepherd, so incredibly unqualified to be fighting a war that Israel’s armies were too afraid to fight themselves. But oh how faithful is our God. The problem was giant, but even it disappeared in comparison.
45 David said to the Philistine, “You come against me with sword and spear and javelin, but I come against you in the name of the Lord Almighty, the God of the armies of Israel, whom you have defied. 46 This day the Lord will deliver you into my hands, and I’ll strike you down and cut off your head. This very day I will give the carcasses of the Philistine army to the birds and the wild animals, and the whole world will know that there is a God in Israel. 47 All those gathered here will know that it is not by sword or spear that the Lord saves; for the battle is the Lord’s, and he will give all of you into our hands.”
The battle isn’t going to be won the way we think it should be. It makes sense to win a war with weaponry. But that wasn’t God’s plan. In my head, in order to bring relief, it makes sense to do relief work in an area that has been so devastated by a natural disaster. Things aren’t going to happen the way I think they should though. For the battle is The Lord’s, and that means that the battle plan belongs to Him too, not to me.
Yes. My flesh aches to get muddy, to comfort the broken, the begin the slow, painful process of restoration and reconstruction. But it’s not my help that anyone needs. It’s His.
Carrying these people before The Father is the best help I could ever offer. And even though I could do it on a washed out road in Honduras, surrounded by debris that whispers of a life lost, I can do it from my dorm room too. And you know what? God can hear me just as clearly as he would if I were there. And He can use me just as effectively.
For the battle does not belong to me, or to the Honduran Government, or to any relief organization. The battle is the Lord’s. And so is the victory.