The Armour

The ocean has been a constant boom and shush outside my window for the past two days as I snuggle into this tiny cabin in the woods, on a faraway shore, in a remote wildness that I love with all my heart. I try to find my way here once or twice a year. To the cedars and moss – to the ocean… my ocean, the thing of his that sings most to my soul, waking it up when it falls asleep.

The rain came down all day yesterday, not just in spits or with a musical patter on the windows, but in a thundering roar that drowned out all noise but the boom of the waves. Everything seemed furious, battering at the walls, smashing against the rocks on the shore, and I hardly ventured out but only looked through my window at it, hardly taking it in, unable to ignore it either.

I came here to this remotest of places to rest, to find some joy, to reconnect with my favourite person, and yet here I’ve sat, day by day, weary, still, and somewhat empty. I went outside, I hiked and I looked, but nothing has yet been able to reach me in that innermost spot of my soul. The one that speaks of him and feels like home. I’ve been sunk too far in a battle these past months to fight my way past how I feel. I thought yesterday, when the power finally went out, it’s as if the land outside is reflecting the war I’ve been through in these past weeks, a war in my soul over words like cruciform and “take up your cross”. The kind of words that are dangerous to people like me, people who’ve been wounded by religious self hate. By the time I drove down this little road, I was bedraggled and raw, as if all the skin of my heart had been scraped off and peeled away. I had hopes that when I arrived it would all make sense, that I would figure everything out, that I would remember why I believe in this one being I love so much. That I would find some way to move forward, find purpose.

Mostly I just wanted him to come and find me here, scoop me up against his chest. Fill me up with his love so I can go back again and endure it all until next time.

I read this thing today, about armour, and it reminded me of a dream I had once. A dream where I was a dove, wings tipped in silver, and he was my King, loping beside me on a horse like the kind you’d find in the oldest tales… or maybe Lord of the Rings. I had been panicking at the time of the dream – trying to figure out all the steps I needed to follow to find my purpose, to live perfectly.

We came to a small meadow, and there I landed on the grass, a woman once again. He got off his horse, and strode towards me. As I stood before him, looking past his shoulder at all the tents of an army laid out on a distant hillside, he took off his armoured boots, and kneeling in the grass before me, he lifted my foot, cradling it in his own and gently manoeuvred it into one of them – lacing it up tight as I held his wide shoulder for balance. Then followed the second. I asked him what he was doing and he didn’t answer me, only squeezed my foot gently.

He stood up then, before me, a King through and through, but not a fancy one. One that was simple and true. He took off his helmet and smiled at me like he does when he’s up to something. Then he reached over and placed it on my head. Only his helmet was so big, so heavy, it nearly tipped off, and I raised a hand to hold it steady, hardly able to hold my head still under the weight of it. He didn’t speak, only went about taking off the rest of his armour. He put a belt around my waist, cinching it up gently, tightly, with his big, rough, farmer’s hands. And then he lifted his breastplate over my head, and it settled over my shoulders, covering my front, weighing me down even further. His sword went into the belt and his shield he looped over my arm.

There I stood, wobbling under all these things that were meant to fit him. And he is always so very big next to me. A universe bigger. I went to take a step towards him, wearing all his armour and nearly fell right over. I could not even move one toe. My feet were weighed down with the iron boots and my upper body was completely immobilized by the things fashioned for him. A sword so long it hit the ground and a shield that made my arm tremble. I must have looked like a hobbit, or a child standing there, swaying back and forth as I named his things under my breath,

Helmet of salvation. Belt of truth. Breastplate of righteousness. Shield of faith. Sword of the Spirit (word of God), and Boots of peace.

I’ve studied his things in detail – I’ve spent hours and days trying to recognize truth, use faith and understand righteousness. But no amount of knowledge changes the weight of them.

“They’re too big!” I finally protested, feeling suddenly panicky that I might not be able to follow him – that I wouldn’t figure out how to make them fit properly before he left. “They’re too heavy! How am I supposed to use these things?”

He didn’t really answer me, he just jumped up on his horse, and then he reached down and scooped me up in his arms, armour and all, placing me in front of him, held secure in my spot by his arms. The moment I was there in my favourite spot, the one where I can hear his heartbeat, the place where I’m always supposed to be, the armour shrunk and eased into place, becoming light and part of my skin.

“You aren’t.” He chuckled in my ear, hugging me to his chest, “Not without me.”