Full Court Faith: Strengthening My Defense, Sharpening My Sword

There’s something about those middle-of-the-night leg cramps as an eight-year-old—sharp, sudden, and absolutely debilitating. One minute, you're dreaming about recess kickball dominance, and the next, you're gripping your calf in sheer agony, convinced you’ll never walk again. That’s kind of how this season of spiritual transformation has felt—stretching, growing, and hurting in ways I didn’t see coming.

Last week, I talked about this roller coaster ride of preparation and pruning. The ride hasn’t stopped, but the jerky, whiplash-inducing turns have eased up… slightly. There are still hills and loops, but I’m learning how to lean into the curves a little better.

Last night after work, I came home and went straight to my secret place. I needed Jesus bad. I craved the safety and security that only His presence provides. My mind was swirling with questions, contemplations, and all-day mental wrestling matches. But the one thought that kept anchoring me was simple: Run to Jesus.

So I sat. Lights off. Soft instrumental music playing. A lamp casting a quiet glow. Tears started to fall before words could even form. And even though I had no idea what to say, I knew that He knew. He always does.

Eventually, words came. My heart poured out before the Lord, and as I spoke, I could feel the Holy Spirit moving. His comfort is unlike anything else—unmatched, unshakable. In the midst of it, He led me to Ephesians 6:12:

For we do not wrestle against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the cosmic powers over this present darkness, against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly places.

A timely reminder. My battles—whether they be spiritual warfare, relational losses, or the daily struggle of keeping my heart in check—are not meant to be fought in my emotions. They are spiritual battles, requiring spiritual weapons. Love God. Love people. And when people sin against me—or just plain get on my nerves—fight those battles spiritually, not emotionally.

As I sat with that, I meditated on the armor of God. I reflected on a conversation I recently had with my spiritual mentor who pointed out something profound: the first five pieces of armor are for defense, but the Sword of the Spirit—the Word of God—is for offense.

And that hit differently.

See, once upon a time, I was a basketball player. And a pretty decent one, if I do say so myself. Defense, however, was not my favorite. But it was necessary to win games. Defense required tenacity, focus, strength, quick feet, and a head on a swivel. And to be good at it, I had to train. Conditioning drills, weightlifting, sprinting the court until my lungs burned—all so I could have the endurance to play hard when it mattered most.

The same is true spiritually.

The Word of God is our offense, but if we aren’t conditioned for defense—if we aren’t trained up, strengthened, and spiritually in shape—then we’ll crumble every time the enemy makes a fast break in our direction. It’s easy to quote scripture and shout on Sundays, but the real work? That happens in the quiet, unseen hours in His presence. The training, the conditioning, the refining—all of it determines how well we stand when the enemy tries to knock us down.

My pastors are in a sermon series on intimacy, and last Sunday, Pastor Jessica dropped a word that hit me straight in the gut:

Your exhaustion isn’t a sign that you need to let go; it’s an indicator that you need to grow.

That one stung. Because, truth be told, I’ve been exhausted. Spiritually, emotionally, mentally, and physically drained. But instead of assuming exhaustion means I need to quit, I’m realizing it’s an invitation to strengthen, to condition, to lean into what God is doing. Growth doesn’t happen when things are easy. It happens in the stretching, the pruning, the pressing.

So right now, I’m asking God to strengthen me. To fill me up. To condition my heart and my mind so that I can fight my battles spiritually, not emotionally. I’m asking Him to train me in the quiet, heavy hours of the secret place so that when I step onto the battlefield, I’m not running on empty, but fighting from a place of overflow.

And most of all, I’m surrendering. Not letting go of faith, but letting go of idolatry. Releasing the things I was never meant to hold onto and trusting Him to train me up for the calling He has placed on my life. Because defense may win championships, but a well-trained offense? That’s where the real plays are made. And I plan on showing up for both.