The devil had already been whispering it—”No one is coming to save you.”
“I need a Savior,” I said.
I knew his pattern. He goes about, seeking whom he may devour.
Not me, I told myself.
But he didn’t leave.
He leaned closer.
“Lace up,” he said. “Do the work. Work harder. Work smarter. Believe in your strength. Your discipline. Your ability. That’s how you’ll be saved—by yourself.”
His words didn’t rush me. They waited.
Then the Lord’s Word rose up within me:
“Except the Lord builds the house, those who build, labor in vain.”
He smiled.
“So,” he said, “you know your Word.”
Then he stopped talking.
The silence pressed harder than the words.
I reached for a response—and found nothing. My mind searched. My mouth stayed closed.
I have nothing, I thought.
He just stood there, watching me—like someone waiting for a confession.
You see, his silence said. Your strength can save you.
You have nothing to say because you know.
I searched the depths of my mind for a word—anything. I reached for Scripture the way a drowning man reaches for air. I prayed, silently, desperately, that the Holy Spirit would bring something—anything—to my remembrance.
He laughed softly.
“You won’t believe it anyway,” he said. “It’s never worked for you. And you know it.”
His words landed heavy, like weights tied to my thoughts.
I lifted my head and stared straight into the eyes of my enemy. I did not argue—I remembered.
I remembered the night God stepped in when death had already made up its mind. I remembered the door the Lord opened when I was underqualified, overlooked, and unprepared—yet favored.
His expression changed.
The confidence drained from his face, and he stood there like a wounded lion—still dangerous, but no longer certain.
“We overcome,” I said aloud, “by the blood of the Lamb and by the word of our testimony.”
I stepped closer.
“These testimonies!—you cannot steal them. You cannot rewrite them. You cannot silence them. They stand as witnesses of God’s goodness and His power.”
Something broke.
“Yes,” I whispered to myself.
But deep within me, something still stirred—fear, doubt, despair, disbelief—circling like a sickness, pressing against my chest, trying to consume the Word of God before it could take root.
Then suddenly—
Like a bonfire igniting in the depths of darkness
Like a fiery arrow tearing through the night in search of its target
The Word of the Lord engulfed me:
“Blessed is the man who trusts in the Lord,
And whose hope is the Lord.
For he shall be like a tree planted by the waters,
Which spreads out its roots by the river,
And will not fear when heat comes;
But its leaf will be green,
And will not be anxious in the year of drought,
Nor will cease from yielding fruit.”
The words did not pass through me—they settled.
And the Lord spoke:
“Son, trust in Me. Hope not in your strength, for it will fail. Let your faith take root in Me, and I will water it. There will be a shelter for shade by day from the heat, and a refuge and shelter from the storm and the rain.”
His voice was steady. Certain.
“Do not be anxious. It is those who trust in horses and chariots who become anxious. But those who trust in the Lord will not be shaken.”
The weight lifted.
The whisper faded.
And I responded—
“Once You have spoken; twice I have heard:
that power belongs to God.”
