In church this Sunday, the passage read aloud:
Immediately the boy's father exclaimed, 'I do believe; help me overcome my unbelief!' Mark 9:24 (NIV)
There is a distinct heaviness that comes when the spirit and soul feel under siege. It is the exhaustion of a soldier who feels they are constantly losing the battles right in front of them.
We often look at our lives to examine the challenges we did not ask for and at times, the difficult consequences of choices we did make. We feel defeated. We cry out, "Help me, Lord," but in the silence that follows, a haunting question arises. If the battle is already won, which side of it will I be on?
The father in Mark 9 gives us perhaps the most relatable, raw confession in the entire Bible. He is in a desperate situation. His son is suffering, the disciples have failed him, and he is running out of hope. When Jesus tells him that everything is possible for one who believes, the father does not pretend to have a superhero's faith.
He cries out with a paradox: "I do believe; help me overcome my unbelief!"
He says he has faith, but it is not enough to drown out his fear. He trusts Jesus, but his eyes still see the problem. That is me.
This passage is not merely ink on a page to Lloyd, my husband, and I. It is a mirror. We know the specific texture of this man's desperation because we have lived it.
I remember the days when our son, Ross, battled for his life. In those moments, the theological concepts of "victory" felt a million miles away. All I could see was the medical equipment, his pain. All I could feel was the suffocating grip of fear. I wanted to believe. I did believe, but as I watched him fight, the reality of the trauma screamed louder than my faith.
Ultimately, Ross did not win that battle here on earth. We lost him. And in the wake of his passing, I have stood in that gap between "I believe" and "help me" more times than I can count. I learned that faith is not a switch that eliminates all struggle. Faith is not the absence of doubt or grief. It is the decision to bring that brokenness to Jesus, even when your hands are shaking and your heart is shattered.
"If the battle is won, why am I losing?"
This is the question that keeps me awake at night. Theologically, we know that Christ has won the ultimate war against sin and death. Experientially, however, we are still in the trenches.
If you are asking God for help, I believe, you are on the winning side.
The feeling of "losing" is often a deception of perspective. Consider the Allied invasion of Normandy on June 6, 1944. Historians now view D-Day as the decisive turning point that all but guaranteed the end of the war in Europe. The sheer scale of the operation made the ultimate Allied victory inevitable in the eyes of the strategic commanders. However, the individual soldier storming Omaha Beach did not feel like a victor that morning.
If you have ever seen the opening sequence of the movie Saving Private Ryan, you have glimpsed this reality. Steven Spielberg famously depicted the landing not as a glorious march, but as a chaotic, terrifying struggle. The soldiers in that film were shaking, disoriented by the noise, and fighting for every inch of sand. To those men in the water, it did not look like victory. It looked like survival.
That is how it felt watching Ross slip away. That is how it feels for me now, facing the heaviness of his absence and the battles of my own soul. Yet, despite what the soldiers saw and felt in the moment, the victory was being secured.
In the same way, the intensity of your struggle does not mean you are on the losing side. It simply means you are on the front lines. The heaviness you feel is not proof that God has abandoned you. It is proof that you are fighting something that does not belong in your soul.
We often treat belief as a feeling or an emotional high that should act as an anesthetic against pain. When we still feel heavy or sad, we assume our belief is broken. But belief is sufficient for salvation, not necessarily for sensation.
Belief is not a magic wand that erases the consequences of our choices or the pain of our circumstances. Instead, belief is the anchor that holds the ship when the storm is raging. The ship still gets wet. The crew still gets seasick. The winds still howl. The ship, however, does not drift away.
Your belief is sufficient because it connects you to the One who is sufficient. The father in Mark 9 did not need more of his own willpower. He needed Jesus to bridge the gap between his fragile faith and his overwhelming reality. It is okay to admit that life has been unfair compared to others. Bring the "heaviness" to the only place it can be processed.
I remember my prayer over and over again years ago.
Lord, I am tired of losing these battles for my hope and my spirit. I accept that the war is won, even if I feel pinned down right now. I believe You are good, but I am struggling to see it in my circumstances. Stand in the gap of my weakness. I do believe; help me in the places where I don't.
You are not losing the war. You are in a battle, and you have called upon the only Reinforcement that matters.
In loving memory of our son, Ross, who fought bravely. Though the battle here is over, the Victory belongs to the Lord.
