A Really Great Sight

What Are We Laboring For?

The past two days have felt incredibly heavy. As another month draws to a close with no resolution on our home, and the strain of forced tiny living wears me down, I spent most of the weekend sleeping. It’s become the simplest way to escape this endless loop—the Groundhog Day (movie reference for those unfamiliar) I’ve been trapped in since last October.

Last week, a friend called me. She didn’t give up, even after I ignored her earlier attempts. She’s stayed connected, checking in on us throughout these past 11 months, and this time she offered a generous gift: a night out for us to catch our breath.

The week before that, another friend sharpened my sword as we dove deep into conversations about human nature and scripture. We encouraged one another, tending to each other’s wounds. We’ve walked similar paths of hardship since October.

The week prior, my neighbor—who’s faithfully mowed our overgrown weeds and watched over the remnants of our shattered lives—texted to see how I was doing. Even when I couldn’t summon the energy to respond, she remained steadfast, later asking my husband about me.

Before that, I had the privilege of gathering with four women (my mother and her friends). We shared from the overflow of our hearts with another woman who’d also lost her home and cherished belongings in a devastating tragedy.

Then there’s the friend I connected with during our own catastrophe—someone I’ve never met face-to-face, only through social media. She’s sent voice messages filled with encouragement and prayer, flowing from her time at Jesus’ feet in obedience and abundance.

And just yesterday, a classmate from nursing school nearly 30 years ago reached out. She was thinking of us and felt compelled to message, undeterred by my months of silence. She listened, uplifted me, and shared a memory from three decades back: “I’ll never forget our first clinical rotation at the VA nursing home. That patient died of AIDS, and we performed post-mortem care. You prayed over him as we held hands, and in that moment, I knew our hearts were entangled forever because of that.”

What’s the point of sharing all of this?

I didn’t want to write about it. I don’t even want to share it, and when I tried to push it away, I heard the Holy Spirit say “What are you laboring for? Today is Labor Day after all.”

So I went to the Word of God.
Matthew 11:28 (ESV) Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.
Labor—kopiaō G2872:

• to grow weary, tired, exhausted (with toil or burdens or grief)

1. to labor with wearisome effort, to toil
   1. of bodily labor Strong’s Definitions: κοπιάω kopiáō, kop-ee-ah’-o; from a derivative of G2873; to feel fatigue; by implication, to work hard:—(bestow) labour, toil, be wearied.

Labor. It’s such a weighted word for this unraveling season, where we teeter in the ninth month of the calendar, swollen with promises deferred, revelations half-birthed, hopes hanging like overripe fruit on brittle vines. Those of us pregnant with the unseen are splitting at the seams, ready to spill forth life from the ache.

‭‭Isaiah‬ ‭54‬:‭1‬ ‭TPT‬‬ ““Rejoice with singing, you barren one! You who have never given birth, burst into a song of joy and shout, you who have never been in labor! For the deserted wife will have more children than the married one,” says Yahweh.”

Nothing carves sorrow deeper than barrenness, a hollow womb echoing with silence. Nothing weighs the soul like grief without a spark of joy to pierce it.

My own grief has been a crushing stone, pruning me bare over these eleven months, shearing away branches until I’m raw and exposed. I’ve clawed through this wilderness of homelessness, the catastrophe that uprooted our lives like a storm-torn oak, scattering roots and dreams across forsaken ground.

In this valley, I’ve gleaned revelations sharp as thorns—the fleeting shelter of the displaced, the cold bite of impermanence that seeps into bones.

Lessons forged only in the fire of walking it out, step by weary step in the natural, yet unveiling the greater shadow: a world adrift in spiritual homelessness, souls wandering without anchor, without home.

Through the haze, I’ve kept vigil, eyes strained for the great stirring of Jesus, ears attuned for heaven’s true resonance in this shadowed hour. Waiting for Yahweh’s sons and daughters to rise like the dawn, unshackling creation from its groaning decay.

Yet, thrones are tipping and pretenders are being sifted in the refiner’s blaze.

I’ve swallowed enough recycled “Christianese” to choke—the endless cycle of wash, rinse, repeat.
Those clichéd scripturisms, hollow as dried husks. You know them, perhaps whispered them yourself:

• I’ll pray for you.
• You’ve got this. You’re so strong.
• He only gives His toughest battles to His strongest warriors.

They echoed through my cancer battle five years ago, and now they curdle in my gut like soured wine, clabbered milk gone rank. They mend nothing, shift no stones, only balm the speaker’s anxious heart.

Maybe they ease your tongue when true human suffering stares you down and words flee in your reflection.

But restoration? Restoration is what surges from the core of God knit in you—your love, gifts and wisdom, poured out to soothe the world’s raw wounds.

I’ve bitten my lip on this too long, knowing the body is weaved from varied threads, and perhaps my fire as an encourager and intercessor excused the dimmer lights in days gone by.

But this dawn compels me today, not just for my fractured self, but for you who claim His name, with ears pricked and spirits open to receive.

If we declare Jesus known in our mouth; if we claim to embody His hands, His feet; if we declare to wield the power that shattered the grave—then enlighten me, what are we doing?

Quoting scripture verses like talismans, yet blind to their power and fire—what a waste of breath and time?

We cannot parade as His shadow any longer. We must lay ahold of every promise of our true identity Jesus came to restore in us. We must be His Light. “Then Jesus said, “I am light to the world, and those who embrace me will experience LIFE-GIVING light, and they will never walk in darkness.””
‭‭John‬ ‭8‬:‭12‬ ‭TPT‬‬

If death and life coil in the tongue, why not unleash life’s torrent of light against the persecuting dark waters?

I’ve crossed paths with pastors aplenty, known them as friends, sowed into their ministries, yet only my childhood shepherd reached across the void in eleven months—with a simple arrow: “I’m interceding for you today.”

And oh, how that arrow restores, like rain on parched earth.

I went silent in March, hiding every written gift He had given me, as Holy Spirit’s whisper sealed my lips, and in the quiet, I glimpsed the sorrow He unveiled.

Why do we presume the faithful never falter into valleys, never crave kin to extend a hand, to listen, to weep in the darkness of the valley? Even with the knowledge of understanding that resurrection is humming on the horizon, that joy will birth from mourning’s womb, that beauty rises from the ashes—what of the passage, the “to” in glory’s trek to glory?

That “to” is the forge of endurance.
The furnace of affliction.

Aren’t we summoned to bear one another up?

In these last few days’ wrestling match, I turned as always to prayer because this darkness descended upon me out of nowhere, crashed into me like a wave unbidden, darker than before, a shadowed force pressing hard against my spirit. Gloom draped heavy; hopelessness gnawed to devour; death waltzed in the corners of my mind.

This morning, the light broke—and I grasped the charge.

Without faith’s bedrock, those haunting visions might have birthed a new tragedy for my family.

That’s the brutal truth, stark as bone.

It rends me that so many I counted as Kingdom brothers and sisters have stayed mute while we floundered in the deep.

Deeper still, is the ache for silent warriors gasping, unseen— what if no one dives in for them?

What if your stretch beyond comfort’s edge was the key that shatters their soul’s siege?

My own band is sparse, yet steadfast—they wield God’s tools to pierce the veil, mending my shattered heart amid the hush. They silently reveal who’s with them.
“The One who breaks open the way will go up before them; they will break through the gate and go out. Their King will pass through before them, the Lord at their head.” ‭‭Micah‬ ‭2‬:‭13‬ ‭NIV‬‬
Or
““The Barrier-Breaker will lead them out into freedom. They will all break out, passing through the enemy’s gates. Their king will advance before their eyes with Yahweh himself leading the way!”” ‭‭
Micah‬ ‭2‬:‭13‬ ‭TPT‬‬

At least I clutch a firm foundation. Unyielding in my pursuit, I have God’s arsenal to worship when the wolves howl at the threshold of my breaking heart.

But my heart splinters for the unanchored, the lost sheep scattered in the gale of the storms.

So in these eclipsed days, as I await for mourning to turn to morning, I will shatter forth in worship. I will continue to hoist my victory’s banners in defiant hope. No earthly veil will dim my spirit’s sight.

I proclaim:
Holy upheaval surges.
Pew-dwellers, untethered from Spirit’s truth, fade before the rising ecclesia.
The remnant is awakening.
Facades will crumble.
It unfolds even now.

In Jesus, my anchor of hope, I glimpse the promised shore.

Isaiah 54 presses on:
““Increase is coming, so enlarge your tent and add extensions to your dwelling.
Hold nothing back!
Make the tent ropes longer and the pegs stronger.
You will increase and spread out in every direction.
Your sons and daughters will conquer nations and revitalize desolate cities.
Do not fear, for your shame is no more.
Do not be embarrassed, for you will not be disgraced.
You will forget the inadequacy you felt in your youth and will no longer remember the shame of your widowhood.
For your Maker is your husband; his name is Yahweh, Commander of Angel Armies!
Your Kinsman-Redeemer is the Holy One of Israel!
He has the title Mighty God of All the Earth!

For I, Yahweh, have invited you to come back like a depressed, deserted wife.
Like a young wife who has experienced rejection, I am drawing you back to me,” says Yahweh.
“For just a brief moment I deserted you, but with tender feelings of love I will gather you back to me.
In a surge of anger, for just the briefest moment, I hid my face from you, but with everlasting kindness, I will show you my cherishing love,” says Yahweh, your Kinsman-Redeemer.

“To me, this is like the time when I vowed that the waters of Noah’s flood would never again cover the earth.
Now I vow to you that I will neither be angry with you nor rebuke you.
Even if the mountains were to crumble and the hills disappear, my heart of steadfast, faithful love will never leave you, and my covenant of peace with you will never be shaken,” says Yahweh, whose love and compassion will never give up on you.

“You unhappy one, storm-tossed and troubled, I am ready to rebuild you with precious stones and your intimacy with me will be built on a foundation of sapphires.
I will make your towers of rubies, your gates of sparkling jewels, and all your walls of precious, delightful stones.
All your children will be taught by Yahweh, and great will be their peace and prosperity.
You will be established in righteousness. Oppression—be far from you!
Fear—be far from you!
Yes, terror will not come near you, nor will you be afraid.
If anyone dares to stir up strife against you, it is not from me!
Those who challenge you will go down in defeat.

See, I am the one who created the craftsman who fans the coals into a fire and forges a weapon fit for its purpose, and I am the one who created the destroyer to destroy.
But I promise you, no weapon meant to hurt you will succeed, and you will refute every accusing word spoken against you.
This promise is the inheritance of Yahweh’s servants, and their vindication is from me,” says Yahweh.”(‭‭Isaiah‬ ‭54‬:‭2‬-‭17‬ ‭TPT‬‬)

I declare “Release the worshippers.”
I decree “Release the sound of heaven.”

And so, back to the question that pierced my weary soul on this Labor Day: What are we laboring for?

In the ruins of my home and business, stripped bare like a field after harvest, I’ve labored not for walls or wealth that mold and bacteria can destroy, but for the eternal weight of glory that emerges from the oil press.

Five months ago, I wrote an unshared lament of the raw ache, the unanswered whys, the clinging to promises amid the debris—much like now, but deeper, more beautiful as the soil of my heart was being turned over and over again for new seeds. Yet I didn’t share it because something new is ahead.

We’ve toiled in tears, sowing in the barren places, but harvest is breaking through the crust of our despair. Because if He calls the dough Holy, then so is the crust.

We labor for the breakthrough, not the breakdown. For the mending of hearts, not the masking of pain. For the Kingdom of God to come, where the hands and feet of Jesus aren’t just idle quotes but active grace—calls that persist, gifts that restore, prayers that war, and silences broken by the obedience of love.

If we’ve been heavy-laden, it’s so we can know the rest He offers, and offer it in turn when others labor.

So I provoke you, those who profess Jesus is Lord-No more platitudes; let our labor be the living Word, flesh on bone, breaking chains in the valleys where others wander homeless in spirit.

As I begin to rise from this eleventh-month crucible, I can see it: We’re laboring for the birth of the true Church, where the remnant roars like a woman in travail, pushing forth authentic revival from the womb of waiting.

Enlarge the tents, yes— but first, enlarge our hearts. Let the sound of heaven drown out the silence of apathy.

For it is in this labor, where we find our rest, our redemption, and our roar.

And oh, how the barren will sing.

Nikki Clark Ellison, © 9/1/2025