Tami Heinl’s Reflection

From the Battlefield to the Cave
How God meets us in both courage and quiet survival.

Have you ever noticed that some seasons of faith feel like standing bravely on a battlefield… and others feel more like quietly surviving in a cave?

Over time, I’ve discovered that my faith journey has included both.

We often remember David as the shepherd boy who ran toward a giant with nothing but a sling and bold faith—courage on full display for everyone to see.

But David’s story didn’t stay on the battlefield.

Soon after that victory, he found himself running for his life. Hunted by King Saul, exhausted and hiding in caves. The same man who once stood boldly before Goliath was now simply trying to survive.

In fact, his fear became so overwhelming that he ran, hid, and at one point even pretended to be insane just to escape danger.

And it was from the cave of survival that David wrote these words:

“I sought the Lord, and He answered me. He delivered me from all my fears.”
— Psalm 34:4

 Not from his enemies.

Not from his circumstances. From his fears.

David’s faith didn’t disappear in the cave. It simply looked different.

David also wrote Psalm 34 as an acrostic poem, each line beginning with a successive letter of the Hebrew alphabet—as if he was quietly reminding us that God holds every part of our story from beginning to end.

From the battlefield… to the cave…

and everything in between.

I understand that shift more than I ever expected to.

When my husband Jimmy was battling cancer, it felt like standing in the valley with a sling in my hand. Courage rose because it had to. We were fighting together believing for miracles and trusting God through every unknown.

It was something we learned together, fighting that cancer battle with God as our strength. Even now, I still feel his courage woven into my own faith journey.

Widowhood, however, has felt different.

Cancer was the battlefield.
Widowhood became the cave.

 A quiet place where survival becomes the rhythm of the day. Where grief echoes in

unexpected moments. Where courage doesn’t look like facing giants anymore. Sometimes courage simply looks like getting up. Taking the next step. Trusting God with a heart that

has been broken open.

Six years later, I’m still learning how to walk in a life that sometimes feels unfamiliar, balancing a ministry focus calling, caring for family, supporting my children through their

own struggles, navigating financial pressures, and carrying responsibilities I never expected to hold alone.

And sometimes I still find myself quietly asking: Will it always feel this heavy?

That question has led me back to something I’m still learning:
Being a follower of Christ isn’t about striving. It’s about surrender.

 Sometimes when we’re standing on the battlefield, we see God’s hand clearly—the miracles, the victories, the moments when His presence feels unmistakable.

But in the cave, things can feel different. Hidden. Quiet. Lonely.

Yet Scripture offers a different perspective on hiddenness:

“For you died, and your life is now hidden with Christ in God.”
— Colossians 3:3

 What if the place that feels hidden is also the place where we are being held most securely in Him?

The invitation from Jesus never changes:

“Remain in me, as I also remain in you.”
— John 15:4

When the enemy sneaks fear into my thoughts through busyness and exhaustion, I can hear Jesus whispering, “I am here.”

The more time I spend in His Word—on my knees, abiding, and with my hands lifted in praise—the more I notice something.

Abiding isn’t about producing more for God. It’s about being with Him.

It’s resting in the quiet truth that we are already deeply loved.

And when I bring my fears, my grief, and my responsibilities to the cross, a holy shift begins to take place. The question slowly moves from, “Will this ever feel lighter?” to a growing gratitude for a God who is carrying this with me.

Sometimes faith looks like running toward giants. Sometimes faith looks like seeking God from a cave. But the cave does not cancel the anointing.

David was no less chosen in hiding than he was in victory.

Sometimes what feels like going backward is actually growing deeper. God often grows the strongest roots of faith in the darkest places.

He grows our trust in the waiting.

He deepens our compassion in the hard seasons.

He teaches us to abide when we realize we cannot carry life on our own.

And somehow, even when the storm around us hasn’t changed, we can find ourselves standing in the eye of the storm, surrounded by a peace that only He can give.

Psalm 34 reminds us:

“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted
and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”
— Psalm 34:18

So wherever this season finds you—on the battlefield, in the valley, in a cave, or somewhere in between—I wonder if the invitation might simply be this:

To notice that you are not alone.

 To choose to surrender over striving.

To name your fears and place them at His feet.

To allow our precious Savior to occupy every part of your heart and carry the burdens you were never meant to carry on our own.

Perhaps that is what David discovered in the cave when he wrote Psalm 34. God wasn’t waiting outside the cave to be invited in.

He wasn’t distant. He wasn’t absent.

He was already there.

Our lives are hidden with Christ in God.

And in Him we discover a deeper surrender—

a trust that quietly gives us the strength to stay.

What once felt like the loneliest place is actually where we are most deeply held.

And as we learn to remain in Him, we begin to see what has been true all along:

“Remain in me, as I also remain in you.” –John 15:4