SPIRITUAL WARFARE: Bound

SPIRITUAL WARFARE: Bound Julia Marks

I never saw it coming.

I never even imagined it could happen to me.

The first thing it taught me was that all while I was thinking I was so clever staying under my “target’s” radar, finding access to his soul to bind it, to keep him from harming others any longer, I could drop enough of my own defenses in the fray, leaving a blind side, and be bound myself.

My soul was bound.

I don’t know what the experience of this is on an evil soul, how the person feels once its accomplished, but, for me, it felt like I was being choked.  Bodily choked.

Choked.  Chained.  Fastened to the floor.

It was the stark contrast to my normal operating sensations that really got me.

In warfare, or in flight, as I like to call it, my experience of life is vastly changed.  Heightened.  Freed.

It’s like becoming Spiderman, in a way.  I find I need something, I flip my hand open to receive it, and there it is.

This only applies to needs.  In flight, there are no wants.

Except to survive.  Somehow.

Because the rules have mutated so much, actually living in the unseen world all the while accomplishing reality as though it were, well, real, understanding how to get through such an ordeal is challenging at best, extreme and desperate at worst.

Ah.  Back to needs.

It’s as though I’ve come to a river and very much need to get across it.  In flight, ice blocks will literally rise up in the water so that I can use them for stepping stones.  And then, once on the other shore, they melt away.  No residue.   No proof.  Just me on one side.

And the enemy stranded on the other.

My favorite of all these times was back when money was very tight.  Getting what I needed financially was like swinging on vines through a jungle: having to let go of one and grab hold of the next before I fell crashing to the ground.

There was a time when I was down to ten dollars.  I knew I was not going to use it until I saw the next vine, the next infusion of money coming my way.  But I would take out that ten dollars, unfold it, and feel it in my fingers.  Sometimes I would even smell it.

It was my secret.  I don’t know why I felt this way about it.  I just did.

Hidden.  Mine.  Waiting.

Finally, I received a call.  More money was on its way.  So I knew I could use the ten dollars.  I could use it to buy some food.  And not just ramen noodles.

So I went to my favorite deli and ordered a barbecued beef sandwich on a twist roll, a bag of Doritos, and an Orangina.  I was so excited.  Real food.

As I took my slip up to the cash register to pay, I pulled out my treasured ten-dollar bill, opened it up, and, there, tucked inside it, out of nowhere, was another ten-dollar bill.

I had opened and held the ten-dollar bill so much that I knew I hadn’t gotten the amount wrong.

But there it was.  The companion ten-dollar bill.

My little miracle that I could tell no one about.

Just smile.

And order a piece of chocolate cake to go along with the sandwich.

(So, fine.  Wants can happen on very rare occasion.)

But, here I was, in battle.  Still in battle.  With a bound soul.

Which means not only no miracle ten-dollar bills, but not even the original ten-dollar bill.

I was just like everyone around me now.  Life was just life.  Solid.  Immovable.  Real.

And I was still in flight.

Bound and in flight.

Like a bird in migration with an anchor tied to its leg.

Going somewhere, except not.

It was a time, interestingly, that gave me battle after battle.  Onslaught after onslaught.

Enemy upon enemy.

And here I was, just an ordinary woman.  All my “spidey” gifts gone.

I was lucky to have a dust pan and broom to sweep the stoop with.

One Wednesday, acutely aware of my screaming vulnerability, I headed off for a noon healing service.  I could drive north on the highway, or I could go south on the highway – or on a nice, quiet, country road.  Ordinarily, I always went north.  But this Wednesday, somehow, someway, I did get a bit of a “spidey” tingling and I went south.

After a service, where the priest’s touch poured into and filled me with peace, I headed home.  Driving on the back road, coming to a slow rolling stop at a stop sign, one tire just exploded.  A gas station was just across the intersection.  The attendant who looked to the tire told me that there was no obvious reason that he could see for the tire having just exploded the way it did.  He said that had I been on the highway, with such an explosion, I would have probably died.

Yeah.

Bound.

But still alive.

It took a long, long time for me to feel safe in the world again.

Years, really.

I shut down as much of everything around me that I could.  I wanted no attention from anyone for anything whatsoever.  No neon signs that could light the way for more attacks.

And I began to see signs.  Dead cats, mostly.

Black-and-white dead cats.

Squashed on the road.

I began to be concerned about the priests with whom I was in contact.

How do you tell a modern priest to watch his back?  To be extra careful while on the road?  (I took to always driving in the midst of a pack of cars.)

Because the problem with demons, the real, true problem with demons, is that they can see you coming, but you can’t see them coming.  Or going.

I’ve “seen” them in visions.  There, in the unseen world, they really don’t amount to much.  They are driven by whoever is calling the shots, their shots; but, basically, they are just nuisance.

On Earth, on the other hand, nuisance can harm a person.  Their nuisance can kill.

To them, it’s play.  To us, it’s our immortal life.  The life of our soul.

So how did I recover exactly?

I did what a recovering person does: I lie as still spiritually as I could.  I prayed.  And I accepted my limitations.

It was quite a few years ago, now, and I’m really not sure that I am completely healed yet.

I knew things were getting better though when, traveling home from a church service hours away, and becoming hungry, I looked down in the car and saw in the little holder a bunch of abandoned change.  With it I could buy a banana, a piece of cheese, and some milk.

I think people at the stop wondered why I was cheering all the way back to the car.

It wasn’t a piece of chocolate cake, but, hey, it was a start.

Amen.

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