An ache in the mouth, a loosening in the bone, a body that won’t hold steady, and behind it all, a heart that will not stop praying. I see you, turning again and again to the Lord, piling one request on another until the words almost stumble over themselves. You are not the first to cry out in a jumble, and the Shepherd does not require polished speech. A child’s half-formed whisper reaches the father’s ear as surely as any anthem. You have asked for healing for your teeth, for your very bones, and you have asked for the far weightier things, for blood and sugar to be set right, for your son and his wife and those three little ones to be held in the hand of God and brought all the way to Jesus. That is the cry of a soul that knows where help must come from. The Lord is not deaf to such a prayer.
We are strange creatures. We will fuss over a splinter in the finger far more than over a wound in the spirit, because the finger throbs and the spirit so often lies numb. But you are not numb. You feel the trouble in your frame keenly enough, yet your greater anguish is for those you love, for their bodies and for their standing before God. That is a mercy of itself, a sign that the Lord has already given you a heart to perceive what matters most. You do not need me to tell you that the same hand which formed the ear can mend a heart valve, and the same voice that stilled the storm can command a rebellious will to bow. You know it. That is why you pray.
So let me steady you with this: when our Lord Jesus came into a house, he did not demand it be a palace. He went into Peter’s hut, a fisherman’s low dwelling, and found it full of trouble, a woman burning with fever, a household anxious and helpless. He did not turn away from the sickroom air. He stood over her, he rebuked the fever, and he lifted her up. Your own situation and your family’s are no more beneath his notice, no more foul to him, than that fever-scorched room. He is not repulsed by our infirmities. He came expressly because of them. The Physician does not expect to find a hospital empty of the sick.
And notice this: in that gospel record, the healing flowed straight into service. The moment the fever left her, she rose and ministered to him. Not as payment, but as the natural overflow of a restored life. So with you. Every touch of Christ’s mending, whether in your mouth or your son’s heart or his wife’s soul, will turn into the energy of love. You shall wash feet and tend toes and do the homely good that is right in front of you, and it shall be a sweet offering, not a grinding duty. The Lord does not merely pluck us out of the pit; he sets our feet upon a rock and establishes our goings.
You mentioned those babies, three of them. That is a heavy and tender charge upon a parent and grandparent. Hear this comfort: the tree of life in the heavenly country is not planted where only a few can reach it. John saw it on either side of the river, abundant, accessible, with leaves that are for the healing of the nations. Its fruit does not ripen once a year and then leave us famished; it bears twelve crops, a constant provision. What I mean is this, the saving, keeping grace of God is not rationed out sparingly. You do not have to hope that just enough mercy trickles down for one person this year and maybe another next. There is fruit enough for your son, his wife, and those little ones all at once, and more to spare. Bring your empty hands. The branch hangs low.
And while we speak of healing, let me tuck this truth close to your heart: the deepest, most destructive sickness is the one that keeps a soul from feeling its own need. You have no such insulation. You feel. You ache over sin, even the hasty words you blurted out. That sorrow, though bitter, is a kind of sight. When the Lord Jesus dealt with the man racked with palsy and let down through the roof, the first word out of his mouth was not “rise and walk,” but “your sins are forgiven you.” That was the deeper paralysis, the truer peril. And the man received it; he did not bristle. The forgiveness was the first and finest healing, and all the rest followed. So it shall be with you. Lay hold of that pardon afresh, for the blood of Christ has not lost its power. He does not forgive grudgingly. He blots out the record and casts it behind his back.
As for the help you need day by day, that grinding anxiety over mold and skin and a toe that will not mend, cast it upon him. He is not too lofty to look at a broken foot. The God who counts the stars and calls them all by name is the very same who binds up the broken in heart and tends their wounds, every wound, the visible and the hidden, the public and the secret. You are not a perimeter case, a vague concern jotted at the bottom of some celestial ledger. You are his own, and your little troubles are his.
Let me commend you, and all those you carry, into his great hands.
Lord Jesus, you who are the same yesterday, today, and forever, the Healer, the Forgiver, the Shepherd who never slumbers, look now upon your child who cries to you from a sore body and a laden heart. Stretch out your hand and touch every place of pain: the jawbone, the tooth, the skin, the toe. Rebuke what must be rebuked, quiet what must be quieted, and bring the body into such soundness as pleases you. But oh, do far more. Draw this son to yourself with a sweet, unbreakable cord, and bring his wife and those three little ones into the full sunlight of your salvation. Heal the heart that is unsteady, the emotions that churn, the feet that stumble. Send true Christian friends around him like a garrison of kindness. Guard him from the evil one as a father guards his lamb from the wolf. And as for your child who prays, speak that deep word of pardon afresh: “Your sins are forgiven you.” Let the weight of haste and regret lift clean away, and guide each step into the way everlasting. For your name’s sake. Amen.
Prayer Focus: God, Thank You for loving me. Thank You for loving me, Jesus. God, I ask You in Jesus’ name please bless me with everything that I stand in need of and everything You want me to have. 
