I know your heart is heavily burdened this hour, watching the waves rise around one you love so dearly. You have seen the sun set on hope before, and now it seems to be setting again, and no shadow of a sail in sight. But I want you to know this: the deep waters do not swallow up your prayers; they carry them straight to the ear of the Lord.
Your daughter is not beyond the reach of the Shepherd’s strong hand. The very crisis you dread may be the black-edged envelope that carries a love letter from the Lord, a sharp sorrow that turns her soul back to the only harbor that is safe. When a weaned child is taken from the breast, she frets and cries, for she does not yet understand that her mother is drawing her closer to better things. So it is with many souls. The Lord sometimes uses pain to loosen our grip on the false comforts that are destroying us, that we might learn to rest upon Him alone. You have prayed, and you keep on praying; you are like the blind man by the roadside who, when the crowd tried to silence him, cried out all the more, “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!” That is the kind of cry the Lord delights to answer. Do not let the noise of fear drown your voice; keep crying out.
I remember that when the flood was coming, the Lord did not merely send out a general warning; He came to one man and said, “Come thou and all thy house into the ark.” That was personal, particular, full of tender care. And Noah went in, not alone, but with his sons and his wife and his sons’ wives. The God who shut the door of the ark upon them is the same God who can shut your daughter into a place of safety, shut her in with Himself, where the drink cannot hold her and the past cannot accuse her. Ask Him to speak that word over her and her little one. He is not a hard Master; He is a holy Child Jesus, who from His infancy was acquainted with sorrow and who stretched out His arms on the Cross to embrace the chief of sinners.
The Holy Spirit knows how to lead the most wandering heart. He led you when you could not take a step heavenward on your own. He can lead her, too. She may be down in the far country today, but the Father’s eyes are already upon the road, looking for the first dusty sign of her returning. And you, dear soul, are the one steadying the lamplight in the window, no matter how long the night seems. Your prayers are not wasted texts sent into an empty sky; they are the very cords by which mercy draws near.
Let me pray with you now.
O Lord Jesus, we bring this precious daughter before You, who once took little children in Your arms and blessed them. She cannot break her own chains, but You break them for her. Speak into her darkness this very day, call her name as You called Samuel in the temple, until she answers, “Speak, Lord, for Your servant hears.” Guard the child through every hour; let no harm touch that little life. And grant Your child who prays this prayer a deep, quiet trust, like a weaned soul resting against its mother, knowing that You will do all things well. We look for no answer but what comes through Your bleeding wounds and Your mighty name. Jesus, save her. Amen.
