I wasn’t expecting anyone that day. The sky was overcast, the kind of gray that makes you want to curl up in a blanket with a good book and pretend the world outside doesn’t exist. But the knock on the door was loud—intentional. Not the kind that comes from a friendly neighbor or a delivery person. It was the kind of knock that demanded attention.

I hesitated.

I wasn’t in the mood for visitors, let alone unknown ones. But something compelled me to open the door, even if just a crack.

And there he stood.

Not with horns, not with red eyes or a pitchfork like the cartoons suggest. But I knew him. I recognized the aura. Familiar. Dark. Smooth. He wore a smile—wide, confident, unsettling. The kind of smile that pretends to care but hides sharp teeth beneath.

“Hello,” he said. “Mind if I come in?”

Every instinct screamed no. But politeness, that old societal disease, made me hesitate.

“I won’t stay long,” he added, eyes darting past me into the home I had built with prayer, tears, and grace. “Just wanted to talk.”

I let him in.

He walked slowly, like he owned the place. No shame. No apology. He glanced around the room, taking stock of my life—my peace, my progress, my quiet victories. And then, as if sitting on a throne, he eased into my favorite chair.

“You’ve done well for yourself,” he said, eyes narrowing slightly. “But don’t get too comfortable.”

I didn’t answer. I sat across from him, arms folded.

“I remember when you used to cry yourself to sleep,” he continued. “When fear was your pillow and self-doubt your blanket. Now look at you… all ‘healed’ and ‘delivered.’ You really think it’s over?”

Ah. There it was. The purpose of his visit.

He hadn’t come to talk. He came to taunt.

To reintroduce fear. To reignite old flames of failure. To whisper lies in tones that sounded eerily like truth.

“I’ve changed,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. “I’m not who I was.”

“Oh, but you still remember, don’t you?” he said with a smirk. “The pain? The betrayal? That sense of abandonment when no one showed up for you? That’s still in there… somewhere.”

He leaned forward, fingers tapping the armrest of the chair.

“The thing about healing,” he said, “is that it’s never as complete as you think. There are cracks. Tiny ones. And cracks let things in.”

My silence was his permission to keep going.

“You’re one storm away from breaking,” he whispered. “One heartbreak away from retreating. One disappointment away from forgetting everything you’ve learned.”

I stood up.

He didn’t flinch.

“You came uninvited,” I said. “But now I know why. You came to remind me of who I used to be. You came to drag me back into the pit I crawled out of. But guess what?”

He raised an eyebrow, amused.

“I’m not afraid of you anymore.”

The words weren’t shouted. They didn’t need to be. They carried the weight of battles fought in silence, nights spent wrestling in prayer, and days learning to walk with trembling faith.

He laughed. Mocking.

“We’ll see,” he said, rising to his feet. “I’ll be back. Maybe not tomorrow. Maybe not next week. But I always return. I know where the cracks are.”

I walked him to the door. And just before he stepped out, I said, “I’ve sealed them.”

He paused.

“Not with willpower. Not with denial. But with truth. The kind that sets captives free. I know who I am now. And I know whose I am. Next time you knock, you won’t find an open door.”

His smile faded, just slightly. Not gone, but cracked.

“I don’t need the door,” he said. “Sometimes I just wait for you to be tired. Distracted. Wounded. That’s when I slip in.”

“But even then,” I said, “I know how to fight now. I don’t wrestle flesh and blood. I don’t argue with lies. I don’t entertain shadows. I speak the Word. I lift my voice in praise. I sit in stillness and I let the Light expose the darkness.”

He said nothing more. Just turned and walked into the misty air, vanishing like fog under morning sun.

I closed the door slowly. Locked it. Then dropped to my knees.

Not in fear. But in gratitude.

Because sometimes, the enemy comes to visit—not to break you, but to remind you of how far you’ve come. His presence is a test, yes, but also a confirmation. He doesn’t visit empty houses. He comes for the ones who have something worth stealing—peace, purpose, progress.

That visit? It didn’t shake me.

It showed me.

That healing isn’t the absence of pain, but the decision to no longer live by it.

That growth isn’t always loud or visible, but it stands firm when storms knock.

That strength isn’t found in pretending the enemy doesn’t exist—but in knowing he has no place here anymore.

So the next time he comes—and he will—I won’t hide. I won’t run. I’ll remember this day.

When the enemy came to visit…

…and left empty-handed.

Reflection for the Reader:

Have you ever felt like the enemy “paid a visit”? Maybe not in a literal sense, but in a season where old thoughts, insecurities, or sins tried to creep back into your life?

Don’t panic. That visit might be the best evidence that you’ve grown. That you’re no longer an easy target. That you’ve got something valuable—your faith, your joy, your wholeness. Keep building. Keep sealing the cracks with truth. And most of all, stay ready—not fearful, but firm.

Your house is no longer his.