My friend, you have come to the end of yourself, and in that there is a strange and blessed mercy, for it is precisely there that the Lord delights to meet you. When the cistern is cracked and every drop has leaked away, you discover that the fountain still brims with living water. You are tired in body and in soul, so tired that the mere thought of tomorrow seems a weight you cannot lift. Do not despise that weariness, for it has brought you to your knees, and it has brought you to the right words: “Father.”
He is your Father. The darkness of your room tonight is not the darkness of a prison cell; it is the shadow of a Father’s wing spread over you. The Lord does not give sleep as the world gives it, a mere shutting down of the machinery, a blank unconsciousness. No, He gives sleep to His beloved as a particular love-token, a sealed parcel of mercy delivered new every night. You have been rising early and sitting up late, eating what the psalmist calls the bread of sorrows. You have been doing your duty, I do not doubt it, and pressing hard after what is needful, but you have learned what all the toiling sons of Adam learn sooner or later: that it is vain. Vain to rise early and stay up late, because the peace you crave is not manufactured by your own efforts. It is given. “He gives to His beloved sleep.” The hard-working laborer, his limbs aching with honest fatigue, throws himself down on a thin mattress and sleeps deep and sweet, while the wealthy man on his bed of down tosses and turns. Why? Because the one looks to his own weary frame and finds there the appointed path to rest, but the other frets and schemes and tries to carry the world on his shoulders. Tonight, be the laborer. Stretch out your tired heart on the promises of God and let them bear your whole weight.
I would not have you imagine that your exhaustion is a mark of God’s displeasure. Far from it. Our Lord Jesus Christ knows well the weariness of the road, for He sat down by the well of Sychar, tired as He was. He was a man of sorrows, acquainted with grief, and His acquaintanceship with grief includes an intimate knowledge of your own. He felt the drain of giving out to others, the pressing crowd of duties, the thronging demands that come not one at a time in orderly fashion, but all at once, helter-skelter, until the mind reels and the heart sinks. And what did He say to His own disciples, those dear men who were slumbering for sorrow in the garden? He did not cast them off for their weakness. He said, “The spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak.” That was not an excuse He made for sin; it was a tender acknowledgment of their frame. And He says the same over you tonight. Your spirit is willing. You would serve, you would trust, you would rise up with wings as eagles. But the flesh is weak, and He knows it.
So come, and let go of the notion that you must be strong to be accepted. “He gives power to the faint, and to him who has no might he increases strength.” That is the astonishing economy of grace: the empty hand receives, the exhausted soul is renewed, the one who has no might is the very one upon whom might settles as a garment. Natural strength, the sort you can muster up from your own reserves, always runs out. It is like a pool that has no spring feeding it, sooner or later the water sinks to the mud and you are left dry as a threshing-floor. But the strength that God gives is self-renewing, inexhaustible, spring-fed from the infinite deeps of His own life. You are not asked to manufacture it. You are asked to receive it.
Think of it this way: the ship in the midst of the ocean does not fret because the water beneath her keel is deep. The depth is her safety; it bears her up. And the depth of your weakness is the very thing that makes room for the buoyant depths of His faithfulness. You say you are exhausted. Then let Him be your strength, for when you are weak, then you are strong, strong in the Lord, not in yourself. The “shall” of His grace is mightier than the “I cannot” of your despair. He does not ask you to climb; He carries you. He does not ask you to be a pillar of fire; He is the fire, and you are the wick that burns with His flame.
And what of this sleep you crave so earnestly? It is no small thing to ask for. Sleep is one of the choicest medicines in the whole dispensary of heaven. It heals more pains of wearied bones than the most eminent physicians upon earth. And the peculiar sweetness of it is that God gives it to His own children not as a wage but as a love-gift. You remember how the Lord Jesus, in the midst of the storm, was asleep on a cushion in the stern of the boat. The waves were crashing over the deck, the wind was howling, the disciples were in a panic, and yet He slept. Why? Because He was in the will of His Father, and in that will He found perfect rest. You are not the Master of the storm, but you are the Master’s own, and He invites you to share something of His calm. You cannot quiet the winds, but you can let Him quiet you. “To do the will of Jesus, this is rest.” And tonight, His will for you is very simple: Cease striving. Lie down. Let the weary world spin on without your supervision. The Shepherd of Israel neither slumbers nor sleeps, so you may.
When you close your eyes in a few moments, do so not as a dubious experiment, but as an act of faith. Entrust your body and your mind to the One who knit them together in your mother’s womb. Entrust tomorrow’s duties to the One who already holds tomorrow in His hand. When obstacles and trials seem like prison walls, remember that you are not called to batter them down in the dark. Do the little you can do, and leave the rest to Him.
Now may the Lord Himself, who is your peace, fold you in His arms tonight. May He make the hours of darkness a sanctuary, and may you wake with the quiet certainty that underneath you are the everlasting arms. In the name of Jesus Christ, our gentle and sufficient Savior. Amen.