Fiction or Faith?

I love World War II historical fiction. I love it because of the pressing, and the crushing, and the rising up of strength out of destruction that the war produced.  It’s when ordinary people were reborn into extraordinary heroes.  It’s when the smallest of children could be the bravest of men, when the weakest of women could be the strongest of soldiers, and when the most humble of men could rise up and lead as kings.  I really love World War II fiction because it’s about people like me being more than they could be – more than they should be able to be.  I love the fiction . . . but what about the reality.   What about when my name is in danger of being shamed?  What about when my happiness is in jeopardy?  What about when my future dreams of a peaceful home and a quiet life are looking more like air castles than felt realities?  I find that when all that is true I like it less.  I find myself questioning if all that pressing and all that crushing would really squeeze a hero out of me or if it would reveal a faithless, questioning, selfish adult.  Sometimes I really fear it would produce the later but I cling to a hope that it won’t  . . . that it won’t because Jesus promises that He who has begun a good work in me will finish it.  In all this brokenness there will come healing, in all the mystery there will be completion.  One day He will finish us.  This is the hope to which I cling.