He was gone again. Off to another gathering in someone’s house, teaching all night, scribbling letters by candlelight. But this time, I followed him.
I had served Paul since the first week he arrived in Ephesus—a tentmaker who wouldn’t stop talking about a man named Jesus. Paul was kind, but intense, like he carried the weight of three kingdoms on his shoulders. And lately, he spoke like time was running out.
That evening, he called a group of us together—young believers, older ones, and a few who still weren’t sure what to believe. Paul’s face looked tired, and I think everyone felt it: something was coming.
He glanced toward the narrow window where dusk was falling. “You don’t fight soldiers with swords,” he said. “Not this kind. What we’re facing… comes in shadows. In minds. In hearts. Evil isn’t just what we see. It’s what we forget to notice when we’re too afraid to stand.”
My stomach clenched. I’d seen the temple idols, heard the chants from the high places. I’d watched Roman guards laugh as they crushed someone for not bowing. What chance did we have?
Paul rolled out the scroll he’d written. He was sending it to the other churches, he said—but tonight, he read it to us first.
“Be strong in the Lord and in His mighty power,” he began, voice steady. “Put on the full armor of God, so you can take your stand against the devil’s schemes.”
Armor?
We all leaned in.
“Truth is your belt,” he continued. “Righteousness, like a breastplate. And your feet—it’s like they wear the readiness that comes from the gospel of peace.”
Around the room, people were still. Even the children stopped whispering.
“Hold up faith like a shield. Keep salvation like a helmet. And use the sword of the Spirit—God’s Word. That’s how you stand. That’s how you fight.”
I remember blinking hard. Not because I didn’t understand—but because I did. He wasn’t handing out weapons. He was handing out identity. He wasn’t telling us to run. He was telling us we’d already been equipped.
We weren’t powerless. We were armed.
Back then, I thought fighting evil meant storming into temples or arguing with Roman officials. But Paul showed us something deeper: the evil that trickled in through fear, shame, bitterness. The quiet lies. That’s where the real battle was.
That was the night I stopped praying just for safety.
I started praying for courage.
Paul was arrested not long after that. Beaten, again. But even in chains, he kept writing. Kept teaching. And those words he gave us that night? They didn’t fade like old letters. They fastened themselves to our hearts.
Now, when I feel the dread return—when I wonder if I’m too small to stand—I remember what Paul said: we don’t fight like the world does. We stand firm, clothed in something stronger than fear.
The armor didn’t make me invincible. It made me ready.
And because of that, I didn’t run. I stood.
He was gone again. Off to another gathering in someone’s house, teaching all night, scribbling letters by candlelight. But this time, I followed him.
I had served Paul since the first week he arrived in Ephesus—a tentmaker who wouldn’t stop talking about a man named Jesus. Paul was kind, but intense, like he carried the weight of three kingdoms on his shoulders. And lately, he spoke like time was running out.
That evening, he called a group of us together—young believers, older ones, and a few who still weren’t sure what to believe. Paul’s face looked tired, and I think everyone felt it: something was coming.
He glanced toward the narrow window where dusk was falling. “You don’t fight soldiers with swords,” he said. “Not this kind. What we’re facing… comes in shadows. In minds. In hearts. Evil isn’t just what we see. It’s what we forget to notice when we’re too afraid to stand.”
My stomach clenched. I’d seen the temple idols, heard the chants from the high places. I’d watched Roman guards laugh as they crushed someone for not bowing. What chance did we have?
Paul rolled out the scroll he’d written. He was sending it to the other churches, he said—but tonight, he read it to us first.
“Be strong in the Lord and in His mighty power,” he began, voice steady. “Put on the full armor of God, so you can take your stand against the devil’s schemes.”
Armor?
We all leaned in.
“Truth is your belt,” he continued. “Righteousness, like a breastplate. And your feet—it’s like they wear the readiness that comes from the gospel of peace.”
Around the room, people were still. Even the children stopped whispering.
“Hold up faith like a shield. Keep salvation like a helmet. And use the sword of the Spirit—God’s Word. That’s how you stand. That’s how you fight.”
I remember blinking hard. Not because I didn’t understand—but because I did. He wasn’t handing out weapons. He was handing out identity. He wasn’t telling us to run. He was telling us we’d already been equipped.
We weren’t powerless. We were armed.
Back then, I thought fighting evil meant storming into temples or arguing with Roman officials. But Paul showed us something deeper: the evil that trickled in through fear, shame, bitterness. The quiet lies. That’s where the real battle was.
That was the night I stopped praying just for safety.
I started praying for courage.
Paul was arrested not long after that. Beaten, again. But even in chains, he kept writing. Kept teaching. And those words he gave us that night? They didn’t fade like old letters. They fastened themselves to our hearts.
Now, when I feel the dread return—when I wonder if I’m too small to stand—I remember what Paul said: we don’t fight like the world does. We stand firm, clothed in something stronger than fear.
The armor didn’t make me invincible. It made me ready.
And because of that, I didn’t run. I stood.
