Silent Battles, Shared Grace

You see me on a Sunday. Hands lifted, faded smile, half a hymn.

Never guessing that a battlefield rages just beneath my skin. This isn't a

bruise I chose, but a thorn in the flesh. Neuropathways grooved by shame,

temptation that won't rest. This is no battle of willpower. Paul wrote,

"What I hate, I do." There's a war inside the mind not seen by

eyes, but God knows every hour I strive. It's everywhere,

you just don't see it. Brothers and sisters waging war in secret.

In pews, behind pulpits, and hidden in prayer, desperate souls locked