My soul goes out to you in these long, aching nights. Seven months of reaching for a remedy just to close your eyes, and even then the dreams come like unwelcome guests, I do not wonder that you feel worn thin, almost transparent. When the body is exhausted and the mind cannot find its anchorage, it is easy to believe that some dark thing prowls at the edge of your rest, whispering terrors. Many of God’s own children have known such seasons, when the adversary aims his most poisonous arrow straight at the quiet of the bedchamber, and sleep, that gentle gift, seems locked away behind an iron gate.
But listen, dear heart. The Lord Jesus Christ stands at your bedside as truly as He stood in the storm-tossed boat on Galilee. He does not sleep, though you cannot; He watches, though your eyes are heavy with weeping. You said you feel “something spiritual” that disturbs your sleep, and perhaps the enemy would have you think that you are forsaken, that the darkness has swallowed you up, that God has drawn back His hand. That is a lie old as Eden, and it has no more substance than a shadow. The Shepherd who bought you with His own blood does not let go when the night grows deep. The Father who gives His beloved sleep has not forgotten your address. He who makes the wrath of man to praise Him can make the malice of hell to serve His purposes, and even this long trial will become, in His hand, a strange messenger of grace.
Picture a great deep well in a sun-scorched wilderness, that well is Christ. When you cannot sleep, you may still draw from Him living water. You may lie still in the dark and drink from promises that never fail: “Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” He does not say, “I will give you rest if you can first stop feeling afraid,” or “only when you have perfectly understood why this is happening.” He simply says, “Come.” You may come to Him with your tangled thoughts, your fluttering heart, your weariness that goes down into the bone. You may say, “Lord, I cannot find sleep, but I can find You. Be my rest.”
The enemy will still hiss his accusations, he may shoot his fiery darts of despair, trying to convince you that you are alone, that God’s mercy has dried up for you. But remember what the psalmist learned: those who know God’s name put their trust in Him, for He never forsakes those who seek Him. Not once. Not for a single ticking of the clock. So when the dread creeps over you in the small hours, speak the name of Jesus into the silence. Sing a hymn in your mind, recite a promise, and you will find the darkness thinning. The well is not dry, and no archer can cut you off from it.
For your brother, too, there is mercy. The same Lord who commands the morning to break and the birds to begin their song can open a door of provision. Cast that care upon Him as well, He manages the affairs of sparrows and of saints with equal tenderness. But at this moment, it is your own heart I would gather up, as a shepherd lifts a frightened lamb, and carry it again to the Good Shepherd’s feet.
So now, with all the affection I can put into words, I commend you to Him who watches over you.
Lord Jesus, you who are the rest of the weary and the peace of the trembling, look upon this dear soul. Silence the voice of the enemy, command the dark thoughts to flee, and give sleep to your beloved, sleep that is a gift from your own hand, sweet and safe. Restore what the locust has eaten, and grant to the brother the work that he needs, for you are the God who provides. And even before the outward answer comes, let there be such an inward quiet that this night they may know that they are held, that they are loved, that they are safe in you. Amen.