You are lying there, miserable, and the very thing that should have strengthened you has turned against you. The good dinner sits like a stone, and your head throbs, and your stomach heaves, and you feel wretchedly, thoroughly unwell. In such a moment everything seems out of sorts, your body has betrayed the comfort you gave it, and even the simplest ease of being at rest in your own skin is gone.
But I want you to know this, right where you are: your Savior does not stand aloof from a churning stomach or an aching head. He who made your frame knows its every spasm and flutter. When He walked among us, the sick were not a nuisance to Him, they were His errand. He came where they lay on their pallets in the street, the foul spirits howling, the fevers burning, and He touched them, He spoke a word, He gave a look, and the pain fled. And do you suppose He has changed now that He sits at the Father’s right hand? Not in the least. He took our infirmities and bore our sicknesses then, and the heart that beat with pity in Galilee beats with the same pity now for you. The very misery you feel is a black-edged envelope with a love letter inside, for it sends you to Him who alone can both quiet the body and steady the soul.
Comfort one another? Yes, but be comforted yourself first. The Father does not merely keep His people alive, He would have them happy in Him. He provides bread, yes, but He loves to add the honey. And when the bread itself seems to scald you and the honey will not stay down, still you are His. The sickness does not mean He has let go of you. Why, He is nearer when the storm is on the sea and the boat is pitching than He is on the calm shore. The disciples had Christ in the ship before ever He rebuked the wind. You have Him in your tossing, He embarked with you long ago.
So do not measure His love by the present heaving of your stomach or the pounding in your temples. Look back a little: how many times has He borne with you, how many burdens has He lifted, how many quiet nights has He given you that you scarcely noticed until this one was stolen away? Can you truly think He has carried you so far only to drop you on the floor of a sickroom? That is not His way with any of His own. What He begins He finishes, and finishing often takes the road through an aching gut and a spinning head, but it leads straight into the land where the tree of life yields its fruit every month and the leaves are for healing. One day you will remember this misery as waters that have passed by, and it will not leave a scar on your spirit. The Great Physician will see to that.
And here is a homely comfort: He knows. The risen Lord who asked Peter three times, “Do you love Me?” knew every tremor of that humbled man’s heart. He knows every honest, feeble beat of yours, even when you can scarcely form a prayer for the nausea. You are not required to produce lofty thoughts just now. A groan may be the best eloquence of faith. The Spirit himself intercedes with groanings that cannot be uttered, so cast the weight of your aching body and your weary head upon Him, and lie still.
Let us pray.
Lord Jesus, look upon this dear sufferer as You looked upon the sick who crowded the streets at evening. You are the same healer still. Quiet the stomach, lift the head, and let this frame know a measure of Your restoring peace. But more than bodily ease, give the comfort of Your presence, the deep, steady quiet that says, “I am here; you are Mine.” Bring sleep when it is time, and bring refreshment out of this weariness. We leave it all with You, trusting the hand that bled for us. Amen.