You are spent, body and soul. The day's work towers over you, but your limbs have turned traitor and will not carry you to the door. Even now, the inward upheaval has drained the last drop of your strength, and you feel as if you are made of mist. I know it well, the ache to be doing, and the body that will only lie still, the urgent tasks that stand waiting while the fever burns on. In such an hour the tempter whispers that you have been forgotten, that your prayers have not pierced the ceiling. But listen, dear heart: the Lord Jesus is not far from any sickroom, He is more at home there than we imagine.
I think of Simon Peter’s house. The Lord had been preaching all day, worn with the press of the crowd, yet when He stepped over the threshold He found no quiet. A woman lay there with a great fever, burning out her life. Did He turn aside, seeking a more comfortable lodging? No, He came straight to the bedside. He took her by the hand, and the fever left her. Not a word of rebuke to the illness; simply His touch, and the heat fled like a shadow before the sun. The hand that had caressed lepers and opened blind eyes was laid upon that burning wrist, and strength flowed in like a river. And what then? She rose and served Him. The service came after the healing, never before. So with you. The Lord does not scold you for lying helpless; He stoops down in the very room where you are, and He is not afraid of the sickness that has humbled you. He has come to take you by the hand.
But perhaps you say, “I have so much to do, and I am nothing but a dry well.” That is the very place where His strength is made perfect. All strength that comes from ourselves is a cistern, it holds only so much, and the drought will empty it. But the strength of God is a fountain, springing up from the deep places that never fail. You cannot stir an inch by your own power just now; that is not a disgrace, but a door thrust open for grace. When you have no strength at all, when you are as weak as an infant, it is then the Father’s arm is underneath you, and you do not know it. Let Him be the glory of your strength, you will never be fit to boast, and that is a good thing. The shame of our weakness is swallowed up in the honor of His might.
And this body that is in turmoil, He knows it, and He is the Healer. Do not imagine your little ailments are beneath His notice. He who made the inward parts can calm them with a word. Does He not tell us that the very hairs of our head are numbered? Then surely the creeping mischief that has laid you low is not hidden from Him. Cry to Him as the beloved Physician. He has a thousand remedies we know nothing of, and a single whisper from His lips can quiet the storm within.
Yet while you wait for the relief of your body, I would have you hold fast to a sweeter mercy still. The deepest healing has already been spoken over you, the forgiveness of your sins. Before the Savior said to the palsied man, “Take up your bed and walk,” He said, “Son, your sins are forgiven you.” The root of all our woe was cut when He bore our guilt. So even now, in this hour of fever and weakness, you may lie back upon that promise as upon pillows of down. Your sins are forgiven, the black-edged envelope of the Law has been opened and inside you found a love-letter sealed with blood. Therefore your sickness is not a frown but a chastening in love, and your bed of weariness is made sacred by His presence.
Soon, I trust, the fever will break, the body will quiet, and strength will steal back like the tide filling the harbor. You will rise to the tasks that now seem so mountainous, and you will find them smaller than you feared, for He who healed the mother-in-law of Peter gave her not only life but the will to serve. So it will be with you. Until then, rest in the Lord, and do not fret yourself. The world will not run off its axle if you are still for a little while. Commit the undone work into His hands; He is quite able to manage without you for a season, and when you rise, you will go forward in His time and in His strength.
Let us pray.
Lord Jesus, this weary child of Yours lies before You in great need. The body is weak, the inward parts are in turmoil, and the weight of duty presses heavily. Come, good Physician, and touch with Your cool hand where the fever rages. Speak the word, and let the storm be still. Restore strength, calm the body, and give the rest that only You can give. And while they wait, may they feel Your presence nearer than the bed they lie on, and hear Your voice saying, “Be of good cheer; your sins are forgiven.” Raise them up in Your own wise time, that they may serve You with a glad heart. All this we ask in Your name, dear Lord Jesus, who lives and reigns with the Father and the Holy Spirit, and who loves us to the end. Amen.