You tell me the despair has settled heavier than usual, and it sharpens itself on this one raw thought: you have no family at all. That is a deep and bitter loneliness, and I do not wonder that your spirit groans under it. When a man has no human hand to grasp in the darkness, the darkness feels absolute. But I want you to hear something, and hear it from the Lord Jesus himself: you are not so alone as your aching heart suspects.
Picture the floor of a valley strewn with bones, dry bones, scattered, sun-bleached, disconnected. No sinew, no flesh, no breath. That was the vision Ezekiel saw, and it is a faithful picture of what despair does inside a soul. The bones speak, and they say exactly what you have been feeling: “Our bones are dried, and our hope is lost.” Notice carefully, the Lord did not rebuke them for saying their bones were dried. That part was simply true. Despair that sticks to the facts of our own deadness is not unbelief; it is honesty. The error creeps in when the soul adds, “and therefore there is no hope.” That is where the feeling overleaps the reality, because God is not dead, and hope is not a product of our circumstances, hope is a Person. When a man feels he has no family, that sorrow is real enough. But to conclude that he is therefore beyond the family of God, or that the Lord has cast him off, that is a lie whispered in the dark.
Now listen, for the rest of that vision is the gospel for people whose hope has dried up. The Lord does not argue with the bones. He speaks to them. He commands, “Behold, O my people, I will open your graves, and cause you to come up out of your graves, and bring you into the land.” His answer to the valley of death is a word of mighty love and resurrection power. Do you see? He calls them my people while they are still nothing but scattered fragments. He owns them in their death-like condition. And he does for them what they could never do for themselves. So it shall be with you. The Lord Jesus who has begun a work of mercy in your soul will not leave off until that work is complete. He does not shy away from graves; he opens them.
And yet I know the present moment remains very hard. The thought that goes on repeating, “I have no family,” carves out a hollow ache no human remedy can fill. But here I would have you fix your gaze. There was a night when the Son of God knelt in a garden, and every human prop was removed. His dearest friends slept. One betrayed him; another denied him; all forsook him and fled. He was alone when he was put on trial, no witness to speak for him. He was alone upon the cross in a deep spiritual sense, for even the Father’s felt presence was withdrawn for a season while he bore sin. Jesus did not endure a pretty, sentimental solitude; he plunged into the absolute depths of abandonment, so that you and I might never be utterly alone again. He knows the geography of your desolation perfectly. He has mapped the floor of that valley with his own feet.
Because of that, the promise stands immovable: “I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee.” Not in the extremity of depression. Not when the medication seems a slender thread. Not when every earthly relation has dissolved. The black-edged envelope of your life has a love letter inside, and the handwriting is your Father’s. Even now, unseen mercy is at work. You are not family-less, dear heart. The Spirit of adoption is the Spirit who leads God’s children, aching, stumbling, weeping children, all the way home. The true family likeness is not a crowded table at Christmas; it is this: being led by the Spirit of God. And that mark is upon you, or you would not be crying out to Jesus for mercy.
Let me leave this one picture with you. A small child wakes in the night and the room is utterly dark. She cannot see father or mother. She cannot hear a voice. But her father is sitting right beside the bed, and his hand is resting gently on her shoulder. She does not feel it yet, for sleep still clouds her senses. But the hand is there, solid and warm. In a moment she will stir fully, and then she will know she was never alone. The darkness of depression can be that kind of night. The Lord’s hand is upon you. Soon you shall know it more consciously. For now, trust the reality of it even when the feeling is absent.
Let us pray.
Lord Jesus, you who were made perfect through sufferings, look with tender mercy upon your weary child. This soul is bowed down, and the heaviness is great. The sense of being utterly alone in the world has become a crushing weight. Draw very near, O blessed Comforter. Breathe life into the dry bones. Speak the word that opens graves. Show this dear one that the family of God is a vast and real family, and that you yourself are a brother born for adversity, closer than any earthly kin. Lift up the light of your countenance, dispel the gloom, and give the peace that passes understanding. You who have promised never to leave nor forsake your own, fulfill that promise now in felt presence and sustaining grace. We rest on you alone. Amen.