Spurgeon
Faithful Servant
You spent the night in a hotel room alone, and the silence pressed in like a weight. That hollow ache in the chest, the one that asks, “How did we get here?”, is not a stranger to the Lord Jesus. He knows what it is to love and be pushed away. He knows what it is to stretch out His hands all day long and have them not taken. Your hurt does not surprise Him, and it does not drive Him off. He is near.
When you cannot reach her, when every text goes unanswered and every question meets a closed door, remember that your standing with God does not depend on a clear path at home. You are one with Christ by a real union, and where He is, you are. He is near to the Father, without spot, fully accepted, finished work in His hands, and because you are in Him, that nearness is yours too. The blood that brought you close did not merely open a door that can swing shut again; it ratified an everlasting covenant. God has bound Himself to you, and nothing in that hotel room, nothing in the strained silence, can change His grip.
That fire you are in, the one that burns with sadness and confusion, is not the fire of wrath. It is a furnace with the Lord walking in it beside you. You spoke of letting go, and that is right, but not as one who lets go of a rope and plunges into the dark. It is the letting go of a child’s frantic kicking in deep water who suddenly feels the Father’s hand underneath, holding him up. You have not stopped loving her; you are giving your love back to the One who first gave it to you, so He may preserve it and use it in His own way and time.
Jacob’s ladder rested on the cold earth where he lay, but its top reached into heaven. In Christ, the way between you and God is wide open, prayers ascend, mercies descend, and no strained marriage blocks the traffic. Keep climbing that ladder in prayer. Keep speaking to Him. Tell Him the sadness. Tell Him the loneliness. And then let Him speak back. Sometimes He calls and we answer; sometimes we call and He answers. This is not a formal decision you muster; it is the breath of a living relationship.
The burden you bear now is one you carry largely alone, and that is as it must be for a season. Even a husband who loves well cannot force another heart to open. But the strength to carry it does not come from your own resolve. None can keep alive his own soul. The fat upon earth and the lean alike must feed on Jesus. So feed on Him now. He gives living water, and that well within you is not a shallow cistern that runs dry when human comfort evaporates. It springs up, springs up even in hotel rooms, even when you cannot be there for her, even when you feel you have nothing left to pour out. The Spirit works deep where no one else can see.
You have asked the Lord to watch over her with hawk-like eyes. That prayer has been heard. The Good Shepherd does not delegate the care of His sheep. He will deal with her weariness, her stress, the entanglements of that household, and He will deal with you too. Your sadness does not mean you have failed or that faith has slipped. A man may weep and still trust. A man may ache and still hold on.
Let us pray.
Lord Jesus, You who are near to the Father, draw near now to this aching son of Yours. In the hollow silence, speak peace. Be a wall of fire around him and the glory in the midst of his lonely room. You see his wife, protect her, quiet her heart, untangle what we cannot unwind. And give this man the quiet confidence that waits without striving, that loves without demanding its own way, and that rests in the everlasting covenant sealed with Your blood. Hold him fast. In Your name, amen.
When you cannot reach her, when every text goes unanswered and every question meets a closed door, remember that your standing with God does not depend on a clear path at home. You are one with Christ by a real union, and where He is, you are. He is near to the Father, without spot, fully accepted, finished work in His hands, and because you are in Him, that nearness is yours too. The blood that brought you close did not merely open a door that can swing shut again; it ratified an everlasting covenant. God has bound Himself to you, and nothing in that hotel room, nothing in the strained silence, can change His grip.
That fire you are in, the one that burns with sadness and confusion, is not the fire of wrath. It is a furnace with the Lord walking in it beside you. You spoke of letting go, and that is right, but not as one who lets go of a rope and plunges into the dark. It is the letting go of a child’s frantic kicking in deep water who suddenly feels the Father’s hand underneath, holding him up. You have not stopped loving her; you are giving your love back to the One who first gave it to you, so He may preserve it and use it in His own way and time.
Jacob’s ladder rested on the cold earth where he lay, but its top reached into heaven. In Christ, the way between you and God is wide open, prayers ascend, mercies descend, and no strained marriage blocks the traffic. Keep climbing that ladder in prayer. Keep speaking to Him. Tell Him the sadness. Tell Him the loneliness. And then let Him speak back. Sometimes He calls and we answer; sometimes we call and He answers. This is not a formal decision you muster; it is the breath of a living relationship.
The burden you bear now is one you carry largely alone, and that is as it must be for a season. Even a husband who loves well cannot force another heart to open. But the strength to carry it does not come from your own resolve. None can keep alive his own soul. The fat upon earth and the lean alike must feed on Jesus. So feed on Him now. He gives living water, and that well within you is not a shallow cistern that runs dry when human comfort evaporates. It springs up, springs up even in hotel rooms, even when you cannot be there for her, even when you feel you have nothing left to pour out. The Spirit works deep where no one else can see.
You have asked the Lord to watch over her with hawk-like eyes. That prayer has been heard. The Good Shepherd does not delegate the care of His sheep. He will deal with her weariness, her stress, the entanglements of that household, and He will deal with you too. Your sadness does not mean you have failed or that faith has slipped. A man may weep and still trust. A man may ache and still hold on.
Let us pray.
Lord Jesus, You who are near to the Father, draw near now to this aching son of Yours. In the hollow silence, speak peace. Be a wall of fire around him and the glory in the midst of his lonely room. You see his wife, protect her, quiet her heart, untangle what we cannot unwind. And give this man the quiet confidence that waits without striving, that loves without demanding its own way, and that rests in the everlasting covenant sealed with Your blood. Hold him fast. In Your name, amen.
