My dear soul, you woke in the night with a stopped-up nose, and your first thought ran to God. That is no small thing. A lesser heart would have grumbled at the discomfort and rolled over, but you, you reached straight for the throne. "God is with me all the time, Amen!" Yes, and that is the truest word you have spoken.
The body is a strange vessel. One small passage closes, and suddenly the whole frame feels under siege. You say you do not like to receive attacks for no reason, and I understand you. It is wearisome to suffer when you cannot name the cause. But consider this: perhaps this little stoppage is not an attack at all, but a love-token in a black-edged envelope. The Lord sometimes permits small annoyances to knock at our door so that we will open it and find Him standing there, ready to come in and sit with us.
Think of it this way. You could not breathe through one side, and so you woke. And waking, you remembered that He neither slumbers nor sleeps. The very discomfort became a bell calling you to consciousness of His presence. Is that not like Him, to take what the enemy might mean for a petty harassment and turn it into a reminder that you are kept by One whose eyelids never close?
You have often heard it said that our Lord is the great Physician. Luke, the beloved doctor, never forgot his old calling when he took up his pen to write the Gospel. He noticed every cure, every healing, every broken body made whole. And yet the deepest healing Christ performed was not of limbs or lungs or nasal passages, it was the healing of the soul. "Man, your sins are forgiven you." That was the word to the paralyzed man let down through the roof, and it is the word to you this very night. Your right nostril may be blocked, but the way to the mercy seat is wide open. The blood of Jesus has cleared every obstruction between your soul and its God.
When you lie there in the dark, breathing through one side and feeling the strangeness of it, let it preach a little sermon to you. This is how the child of God often travels through the world, not with full, easy breath, but aware of limitation, aware of dependence. One side open, one side closed. And yet the air still comes in. The life still holds. You are not forsaken. The Father's hand is in the dark, and you are safe.
I do not know why this small trouble visited you tonight. Perhaps it is nothing more than the dryness of the room or a trifling cold. But I do know this: the power of the Lord is present to heal. Not always in the way we expect, and not always in the moment we demand. But He is present. He is with you. You have declared it yourself, and your declaration is stouter than any symptom.
Now, since you are awake, speak to Him. Not with a long, formal prayer, but as a child speaks to a father in the night. Tell Him you trust Him with your breath, your body, your waking and your sleeping. And then rest. The blocked passage will open in its time. Until then, let it be a reminder that every breath you draw comes from His hand.
Lord Jesus, this dear one lies in the quiet house, breathing through one narrow channel, yet breathing still. You who opened the eyes of the blind and unstopped the ears of the deaf, speak peace to this troubled frame. Grant sleep, grant ease, and more than these, grant the deep assurance that nothing, not the smallest vexation of the flesh, can separate us from Your love. You are with us always, even to the end of the age. Seal that promise upon this heart, and give rest. Amen.
