A sudden darkness has fallen upon your neighbor’s house, and you feel the jolt of it in your own soul. That is as it should be: you are not a stone, but a living member of Christ, and when one member suffers, all suffer with it. You ask for prayer, and I tell you plainly that you already have it, the very breath you drew just now to sigh out this request was a prayer, and the Father’s ear caught it before you finished. He does not turn away from the broken in spirit. He is not far from any who stagger under a heavy blow.
Think of the poor mother next door. You cannot enter the deepest chamber of her grief, no one can but the Man of Sorrows, yet you can stand near her door with a basin of water and a towel, ready to wash the feet of the weary. The Lord has not left her comfortless. He will send that word of consolation which only He can speak, and perhaps part of that word will be carried on your own lips, or in your silent, steady presence. Do not be anxious over what to say; a bruised reed He will not break, and the smoking flax He will not quench. That promise is for the very faintest flicker of faith, the very sorest bruising of the heart. The Shepherd will carry that lamb close to His bosom, even when the lamb no longer has strength to bleat. And you may be sure of this: the Good Shepherd was with your neighbor’s daughter in her darkest hour, for there is no pit so deep that Christ is not deeper still. We cannot untie the tangled knot of why, but we can point to the piercèd hands that hold the keys of death and the grave, and whisper, “He knows; He loves; He will bring light out of the shadow.”
Now, for that trouble at your work, the clashing of duties, the misunderstanding, the knot that will not come loose no matter what you do, remember that the Lord who counts the stars is not baffled by a tangle in your daily bread. He sees the whole web, while you see only the one snarled thread. He who carries the government upon His shoulder can smooth out a workplace squall before you have time to grow anxious. These little storms teach us to stay near the Master, for the wind and the waves still know His voice. He is in the boat with you, and if He seems to be asleep, it is only because your safety is already secured. You will laugh at this fret once it is past, and you will look back and say, “He did all things well.”
Lift your eyes from the churning water to the steady hills. Your neighbor’s sorrow and your own daily vexation are both held within the pierced palm. One day all this will be forgotten like waters that pass away, and you will remember nothing of it except the nearness of Jesus. Until then, comfort your own heart with the love that will not let you go, and let that comfort spill over onto the other bruised souls within your reach.
Now let us pray.
Lord Jesus, You see the heart that came to You today with two burdens. You know the heavy shock that has come to a neighbor’s home, and the quiet daily strain that wears upon this dear soul. We do not ask for explanations; we ask for Your presence. Meet that grieving mother in the watches of the night. Wrap her round with a sense of Your compassion, and give her one ray of hope that pierces the gloom. And for this, Your child, unsnarl the threads of work and worry. Give a calm mind and a patient spirit, and let the matter be smoothed in such a way that all will say, “This was the Lord’s doing.” Be strength in weakness, light in darkness, and the solid ground beneath our feet. Amen.