Day 136

1 Chronicles 5–7 | Acts 25

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Sometimes we forget where the battle actually is.

And worse—we forget who it belongs to.

We don’t mean to.

We just start managing pain instead of surrendering it.

We name our wounds more often than our Deliverer.

We confuse darkness for depth.

We make altars to disappointment—without even realizing it.

That’s where I’ve been these past few weeks—and if you’ve read my posts, maybe you’ve been there with me too.

Not in rebellion.

Not in doubt.

But in subtle forgetfulness.

I’ve had my eyes fixed on the scars.

Trying to chart my own path through the pain.

Treating grief like a roadmap instead of crying out to the One who delivers us from it.

But today—something shifted.

Before that shift, I’d made an idol out of my pain. I didn’t mean to. But I let it consume my thoughts, dictate my posture, steal my hope. I looked down for so long that I started to believe down was the only direction I had left. I preached disappointment to myself and called it depth. And that was sin. Not just sadness. Not just weariness. But misdirected worship.

The God of Deliverance Shows Up Early

1 Chronicles 5 tells the story of tribes—Reuben, Gad, and the half-tribe of Manasseh—at war.

Outnumbered. Outmatched. In a desperate fight against overwhelming forces.

And yet:

“They cried out to God during the battle, and He answered their prayer because they trusted in Him.” (v. 20)

Not before the battle.

Not after they saw a sign.

But in the middle of it.

Right in the thick of bloodshed and exhaustion and fear—they cried out.

And God heard.

God answered.

God delivered.

Because He’s not just the God of victory.

He’s the God who shows up in the valley—before the outcome is even clear.

God Is Still the One Who Fights for Me

That’s the reminder buried in 1 Chronicles: God doesn’t need me to muscle through. He just wants me to cry out.

To stop managing the wound and start marveling at the Healer.

To stop rehashing the pain and start rehearsing His faithfulness.

Because the battle was never mine.

It never has been.

And the moment I start thinking otherwise—

I lose.

But when I lift my eyes…

When I cry out again…

When I remember that His name, not mine, holds the power…

That’s when the tide turns.

Sometimes, the battle isn’t visible. It’s not with armies or accusers—it’s with doubt.

Discouragement.

The slow suffocation of unanswered questions and unseen progress.

And sometimes, God sends someone closer than a brother to remind you: this is a test.

Not of strength—but of trust.

A refining fire, not a punishment.

A chance to believe, not just in what God can do—but in who He is, even before He does it.

Even in the Courtroom

Acts 25 shows Paul in yet another legal battle.

He’s wrongly accused.

Unjustly imprisoned.

Passed from one corrupt authority to another.

But Paul doesn’t panic.

He doesn’t grasp for power.

He doesn’t craft a clever defense.

He simply appeals—

Not to the crowd,

Not to his résumé,

But to Caesar.

Because Paul knows something most of us forget:

God governs even the courtroom.

Even injustice bends to His authority.

Even the steps we didn’t plan are still ordered by His hand.

That’s not passivity.

That’s trust.

The kind of trust that comes when you know the battle was never yours to begin with.

If Your Head Has Been Down Too Long

If you’ve been staring at the loss instead of the Lord…

If you’ve been naming the scars instead of the Savior…

If you’ve slowly, unintentionally, begun worshiping at the altar of disappointment…

Then lift your eyes.

Because the battle isn’t yours.

It’s His—to fight and to win.

And sometimes, He proves it in ways we never expected.

Through a moment of peace where there was tension.

Through a quiet, coffeehouse-patio-conversation that speaks louder than pain and depression.

Through a glimpse of grace from a friend that whispers: He’s still writing your story.

Because He is.

And He won’t stop until you rise with a story only He could have written.

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Lord, I’ve had my head down. Counting scars instead of crying out. Clinging to control instead of calling on Your name. But You are faithful. You fight for me. You defend me. You never stop writing redemption and reconciliation and restoration into my story—even when I can’t see it yet. So lift my chin. Unclench my grip. And remind me again that the battle was never mine to begin with. And in the end, Your will prevails—maybe not how I imagined, but always for my good and Your glory.

Amen.