I have been thinking of you, sitting there in your nursing home room, with the quiet walls and the long hours, and my heart aches for the trouble you have passed through. It is a heavy list, your husband gone without a word, the bottle you turned to when the pain got too much, the job lost, the handcuffs, the hospital bed, and now this. You say, “I am an old lady. I am in trouble.” I hear it, and I believe you. Yet I want you to know something tender: you are not beyond the reach of the One who came to seek and to save. Your life is not a closed book; it is a page that Christ can turn.
When a soul has been arrested, and I do not only mean by the police, but when the law of God and the circumstances of life have hemmed you in and shut every door, it is a frightening place. You look around and see no way out. But what if I told you that many of God’s dear children have been kept in just such custody, not as a prison to destroy them, but as a schoolroom to lead them home? The same walls that feel like a punishment may be the very sheepfold where the Shepherd has penned you until you hear His voice. You have been brought low, dear heart, but the lowest place is where the rivers of grace run deepest.
You are wearied with the length of your way, anyone would be. You tried to prop yourself up with drink, and it cracked beneath you. You hoped for love from a husband, and he vanished. You clung to your work, and it was pulled away. Your own strength has failed, and now you sit in that chair, wondering if hope itself has died. But I hear something in your voice, even in this prayer request: you have not yet said, “There is no hope.” You are still asking for prayer. That is the glimmer God never despises. The woman who stretches out a trembling hand in the dark is the woman Christ is already reaching toward.
Do you remember the poor man in the Gospels, the one who lived among the tombs, a terror to himself, cutting himself with stones? No one could chain him; he broke every restraint. But when Jesus came, He did not lecture him. He did not say, “Look what you have done to yourself.” He simply spoke, and the demons fled, and the man sat at His feet, clothed and in his right mind. Then the Lord told him something startling. He did not say, “Become a hermit and do penance.” He said, “Go home to your friends, and tell them what great things the Lord has done for you, and how He has had compassion on you.” Now, your home right now may be a single room with a nursing staff. Your friends may be the ones who bring your lunch tray. Never mind. That very place can become the porch of heaven if you begin to tell, even with a whisper, that Jesus has had compassion on you. Not because you deserved it, but because His heart is a fountain of pity for the broken and the fallen.
The truth is, my soul is full of this word: Christ does not deal with us according to our deservings. The devil loves to rake up the past and parade our failings before us. The world says, “You drank; you were arrested; you lost everything, what use are you now?” But the Lord Jesus says, “Neither do I condemn you; go and sin no more.” His love letter to you comes in a black-edged envelope, it is true, with news of all that is lost, but open it and you will find it is written in His own blood, and the message is: you are not cast away. The Shepherd will go after the one that has wandered until He finds her, and when He has found her, He lays her on His shoulders, rejoicing. He does not drive His sheep; He carries them. You are being carried just now, though you do not feel a hand beneath you, and the nursing home bed is as much held by the Everlasting Arms as the throne of glory itself.
Once, when many of Christ’s followers turned away from Him and walked no more with Him, offended by His hard sayings, He turned to the twelve and asked them a searching question. He did not chase after the crowd or soften His words. He simply said to those who still stood there, “Will you also go away?” I think He puts that same question to you tonight, in your loneliness. Your husband went away. Your health has gone. The old life has gone. Among all that have left you, Jesus stands and asks you, “Will you also go away from Me?” Oh, answer with Peter, whose heart knew neither polish nor pretense: “Lord, to whom shall I go? You have the words of eternal life.” Those words are yours this very hour. You cannot lose your way when you have a living Guide. You cannot be ultimately lost when you cling, even by a thread, to Him who is the Way.
Do not look at the roll of your sins; look at the roll of His promises. Do not gaze into the grave of your own hopes; gaze into the empty tomb of the risen Lord. There is no work, no device, no wisdom in the grave toward which we all move, that would be terror indeed if we had no Friend beyond it. But because He lives, you shall live also. The blood that cleanses from all sin has not lost its power. The intercession that pleads for the chief of sinners has not grown weak. Cast your whole weight upon Him, dear lady. He will not let you fall.
Let me pray with you now, as though we were sitting together in that room, and the late afternoon light were coming through the window.
Lord Jesus, our Good Shepherd, who goes after the lost until You find them, we bring before You this precious soul, wearied and bruised by the way. She has drunk from broken cisterns, and they have hurt her. She has been deserted by one who promised love, and the wound is deep. Yet she has not said there is no hope; she still cries from the depths. Hear her, O Lord, and come quickly. Forgive every sin, the drinking, the wandering, the despair, wash her whiter than snow. Make her nursing home room a sanctuary of Your presence. Give her peace in You, though all earthly comforts have stripped away. Let her know that she is not alone, for You have promised never to leave nor forsake Your own. And when You call her from that room, whether soon or later, bring her home to the house of many mansions, where the Husband of her soul awaits her with everlasting love. We ask it in Your name, Lord Jesus. Amen.