Always Wear Your Armor

Sins are sneaky.

While you’re working hard against one, your soul sweating furiously to withstand it and put it down, another sin quietly slinks in. It burrows itself deeply in, making itself a little shelter in some corner of your being, and then, without warning and no real fan fare, it rears its ugly head and bellows.

I never thought I’d be one to disrespect my husband or nag or really have marital problems, but, in the past few weeks, my role as biblical, submissive wife was target for the devil’s hard and true arrows. No amount of years watching my parents play out their biblical roles and no number of wifeyhood books I’ve read could prepare me for the first fierce battle against our marriage.

Perhaps I never truly struggled with it before because I always worked in predominately male environments. For almost two years of our marriage and part of our time dating, I worked in an office full of men. Men who didn’t sit at the break table complaining about their spouses. Men who didn’t speak about their spouses in incredulous tones and who didn’t wonder why they were married at all. Men who, even if they were single, didn’t talk about significant others or girls like they were a burden or a ball and chain. Not always because they loved or cherished their wives or significant others, but just because they’re men, and men don’t often whine together in misery about their unfortunate unions.

Plus, software engineers don’t talk much anyway.

But now I’m a billing clerk. And, like most billing departments in most companies, a majority of my coworkers are women.

And women not only like to talk, they like to talk about their husbands or boyfriends.

About how she can’t believe he did this last night. About how he told her this. About how stupid he is and how he calls her and interrupts her workday for the stupidest reasons. About how all men do is argue because they’re lazy. About how men are just plain lazy and that’s that.

And I think smugly to myself, “I’m doing so great, not participating in this.”

So I sit quietly, not reacting to or participating in the husband/boyfriend roast. I stuff one earbud into my ear canal and play me some music, patting myself on the back all the way.

Then I come home.

And all the hate and discontentment and bitterness I allowed to filter in and settle into my brain (like water settles into a cistern) spews forth in droves. I don’t even ease into it. I barrel right on into the after-work peace, degrading Mister about not doing this, sneering because he does that, rolling my eyes and muttering about being happier single.

Meanwhile, the smallest, softest voice of my conscience cries, “What are youΒ doing??

And honestly, I don’t know.

I didn’t know, anyway, until I stopped to think about it.

It doesn’t matter if I simply don’t participate in the sin swarming around me, overloading my senses day in and day out.

I must fight it, head on, before it buds.

Sin is sin, and it nestles where it finds a patch of inactive soul. You can ignore it, but it doesn’t mean it isn’t there, making a home within you, waiting for just the right moment to announce itself.

I need to stride into work with my armor on, ready to defend myself against the poisonous darts, instead of shlumping in and pretending the darts aren’t penetrating my mind, heart, and soul.

I need always to be killing sin, or else it will kill me.

Pray for me, and pray for Mister, the magnificent man who has so faithfully and graciously put up with me when I most deserved a sound spanking and a time out.

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