War Room by Chris Fabry ![[war-room.png]] “Can I ask you how much you pray for your husband?” Clara said. Prayed for Tony? She gave the woman a nervous look. In that moment she was unguarded and exposed, as if her whole life were being put under some Clara Williams microscope. “Well, very little,” Elizabeth finally said. Clara looked at her tenderly, her eyes full of something close to empathy. She placed a hand on Elizabeth’s and leaned forward. “Elizabeth, I think it’s time to show you my favorite place in this house.” Elizabeth followed her up the staircase to the bedroom at the top. Clara swung her arms to give herself momentum when she reached the landing and her breathing became a bit labored. The bedroom was small, with a twin bed nicely made and a picture of a young man on the nightstand. Miss Clara’s footsteps made the hardwood sag. She entered the room, opened the small closet door, and switched on the overhead light. Elizabeth peered inside what appeared to be an empty closet except for the small chair in the corner. There were no clothes or items stored above, no ironing board or umbrellas. Just a pillow, the chair, a Bible, and notes taped to the walls. “Now this is where I do my fighting.” “A closet,” Elizabeth said. “I call this my war room.” Elizabeth stepped inside and felt a sense of peace waft over her. She glanced at the pieces of paper taped to the walls, the neat handwriting spelling out names and phrases. Some pages with verses of Scripture on them. Others had pictures on note cards. Some of the notes looked like they had been there for years. “So you wrote prayers for each area of your life?” “A prayer strategy. Yes. I used to do what you and your husband are doing, but it got me nowhere. Then I started really studying what the Scriptures say, and God showed me that it wasn’t my job to do the heavy lifting. No. That was something that only He could do. It was my job to seek Him, to trust Him, and to stand on His Word.” It was like stepping into some holy place, a shrine of sorts, and pulling back the curtain that separated the everyday from the holy. Elizabeth walked out of the closet, her arms crossed, and turned. “Miss Clara, I’ve never seen anything like this. And I admire it, I really do. It’s just that I don’t have time to pray that much every day.” “But you apparently have time to fight losing battles with your husband.” The woman could be brutal. But she was right. They frittered away their relationship with angry words that led to bitterness and distance. Elizabeth looked down, not knowing how to respond, how to cut to the heart with the insight of this old woman. Clara spoke up again, her voice filled with passion. “Elizabeth, if you’ll give me one hour a week, I can teach you how to fight the right way, with the right weapons.” Elizabeth didn’t answer. She just stood there in thought, looking at Clara. Then she led the way down the stairs, holding on to the banister to steady herself. She gathered her purse and the documents and walked out the front door, thanking Clara for the coffee. On the porch, she turned. “Since you’re good with the asking price, I’ll go ahead and list the house,” Elizabeth said. “I’d like to think about our other discussion.” The old woman’s face was etched with concern. “Elizabeth, please forgive me for being so direct. I see in you a warrior that needs to be awakened. But I will respect whatever decision you make.” “Thank you, Miss Clara. I hope you have a good day.”