Dear Reader,

You.

You are a fighter.

Don't ever forget that.

The world is a gladiator arena, full of jeering crowds and savage beasts, and you've been thrown into the middle of it with no protection. You're pitted against your fellow man, your skills, brawn, and brain against his. One slip up, and you're dead.

You'll get battered. The more you hurt, the more delighted the crowds seem to become. The world will become one huge pit of laughing, mocking faces and you'll feel the weight of their cruel delight on your back. The tears will sting your eyes and mingle with your sweat and blood, but you'll get up again. Because the crowd will only cheer when you die.

Sometimes, you'll look up to the heavens and plead that you're too tired. You're too spent. You just want it to end, you want the lions to break their chains and fall upon you. You would throw yourself at them, except you don't have the courage.

And it will feel like the heavens don't answer, like God himself is interested in other matters, besides the pain and scourging of one battle-weary gladiator. You'll get to your feet, but there's no energy behind your blows, and your opponent is winning. The crowd is winning.

Just when you feel like everything is lost, like there is no other choice but to fall on your own blade and be done with it, there will be a hush. The crowd will fall silent, and even the lions will stop roaring. Your opponent will let his sword fall, and the whole world will be staring at you, lying on the ground, as you sob in the dust.

And then He'll crouch next to you. He'll take off your helmet, pass a hand over your grimy brow, and close your eyes. He'll pick you up effortlessly, cradling you close to him, stronger than any man you've ever seen, and he'll take you away from the gladiator field. He'll take away the need to fight, because once He's bathed your wounds and washed your body, He'll pick up your helmet. He'll wrap you in soft clothes, and then pick up the sword you used to fight for your life.

He'll dress himself in your armor, and step out onto the field. The crowd will scream with delight, because they have a new victim, they have a new person to laugh at. He'll take their blows and their insults for you. While you sleep and rest, clothed and comfortable, he'll take every cut, every bruise, every broken bone that was meant for you.

Because you are both fighters.

And He loves you more than you will ever be able to comprehend.

Yours,

Earl