The Armor

The nondescript village sat deep in the foothills of a lesser known mountain range seldom mentioned in history.  Records of the twelfth century seem to have neglected and, some would say, even ignored any contribution this little hamlet may have had on the advancement of the kingdom surrounding it.  To be sure, it was an isolated place on the banks of a beautiful river which wandered rather aimlessly from a towering neighboring mountain.  Any casual observer, strolling through this village, would have been impressed with the tidiness of the dwellings as well as the orderliness in which they were arranged.  Modest huts, some made of wood and others made of stone, neatly lined the trail that led through the center the town.  Had the observer spent any amount of time with the residents, he would have found them to be kind to one another, leery of strangers and persistent as they went about their daily activities.

A word must be said regarding the average day in this village.  There were, without a doubt, a variety of things that needed to be done every day just to provide for the survival of the community.  Of course, there were also daily rituals required to keep the area neat and orderly and the population well fed..  Over the years the villagers had become adept at quickly doing the mundane things of life so that they could concentrate on their passion.  Yes, everyone in the village shared an obsession. They would rise early to complete the required demands of they day so that they could spend any remaining time doing what they loved most.  Making armor.  And could these people make armor.  Helmets, breastplates, gauntlets and everything else necessary to clothe a knight.  They would also make shields, axes and swords as well as a variety of other forms of weaponry.

It's what these people did, don't you see.  For generation after generation, the people of this village spent their days designing and molding some truly beautiful armor and, if they would admit it, they were proud of the wonderful pieces neatly displayed outside of their tiny wooden and stone houses.  When they weren't making the armor or polishing it, for each piece would be polished daily, they spent their time discussing how the armor might be used.  They would imagine battles that would be fought, and victories that would be won with their truly splendid armor.

There was, indeed, a question that the villagers would not allow to come into focus in their minds.  While the armor did look magnificent, and while it was unquestionably beautiful and always well polished, it really had never been tested in battle.  Without a doubt, there had been opportunity, for the kingdom was constantly under attack.  But, sadly, the village was wary of allowing any of its people or armor to leave and do battle for the kingdom.  The possibility of the swords becoming dented or scratched was a concern as was the thought of the well maintained helmets and breastplates losing the sheen that can only come from decades of dedicated furbishing.  Since the village was inconsequential in kingdom warfare, the enemy never attacked and the warriors of the kingdom had little reason to pass through.  And so, the people of the village passed their time buffing their armament and discussing battle logistics.

One day, a form appeared on the horizon opposite the mountain.  A lone man slowly walking toward the isolated village.  His image was indistinct in the distance as the inhabitants of the village cautiously peered from the doorways of the small wood and stone huts.  Visitors to the area were practically nonexistent, and so the townspeople watched the approaching figure guardedly.

As the figure drew closer, it became clear that the man was a knight just recent from battle.  He approached the edge of the village with his helmet cradled in his left arm as his sword swung from his belt beneath his right.  His path took him down the trail through the middle of the town as he made his way toward the river at the foot of the mountain.  From behind closed doors, the villagers stared at the figure with the grey, grizzled hair, and several weeks worth of beard on his face.  Although weak, he carried himself with determination as he made his way between the houses.  The warrior's mind was filled with memories of substantial kingdom victories as well as remembrances of crushing defeats.  He saw the doors of the houses move ever so slightly, and knew his movements were being studied.  He saw the magnificently shining armor outside of the houses, but their beauty did not seem to move him.  So he walked toward the river, aware of staring eyes, mindful of subdued whispers, but indifferent to any of it.  The warrior was wise enough to know what was being said, but old enough not to care.

Once he had reached the river side of the town, the villagers slowly made their way outside and filled the trail behind him.  He was some distance away, but still they spoke in low tones.  They spoke despairingly of the huge gouges in his breastplate, and the dents in his helmet.  As they spoke, they could be seen pointing to the armor proudly displayed outside of their wooden and stone houses.  They compared the brightness of their armor to the dingy, soot covered and grungy armor worn by the stranger.  Smiles and snickers were common as they contrasted his beat up sword and pitted shield with the masterpieces in their yards.  And for the villagers, it was a glorious night.  They spoke late into the night about the neglected armor the stranger wore, and they laughed at his tattered weaponry.  They speculated at the battles he must of lost, and shook their heads in disdain at the defeats he must have so foolishly suffered.  At long last they slept.  They slept knowing that their armor would never be as dingy as that of the stranger who passed through that day.  And they slept reassured in their minds that they would have been victorious in the battles in which the passing warrior had suffered defeat.

The warrior slept too.  He slept next to the river with his breastplate as a pillow, and his sword at his side.  He slept dreaming of the battles to come, and victories won for the kingdom.  And the warrior slept well.         

     

“Isn't it weird that the mighty army of the children of God – shod with faith, shielded by righteousness, and armed with the Word of God – spends the vast majority of its time either polishing its armor or fighting with one another?” - Mike Warnke