You are both feeling spent just now, and the weariness settles deep into your bones, that dragging ache that makes even a cheerful thought seem heavy. And I know what it is to watch your own child droop and to feel, in your own body, the echoes of their exhaustion, so that you carry a double burden. The Lord does not despise such a prayer, whispered from a tired heart and a tired body. He is the God who knows our frame; He remembers we are dust.
Picture, for a moment, that blessed evening in Capernaum, the sick folk lying on their mattresses in the streets, the cries and moans filling the air, and then Jesus walking among them. He did not pass one by. He laid His hand here, spoke a word there, and the fever fled, the foul spirits departed. The Physician bore their griefs; He drew their sickness into His own heart before it ever touched His cross. And He is the same tonight. Not a drop of His tender power has run dry. He can stoop to your particular home, to the bedroom where your teenager lies pale, and He can do what no medicine alone can do. So tell Him simply, about the aching head, the weary limbs, the anxious heart hovering over your child, and be sure He does not think it too small or too ordinary. He heals “all sorts of sickness,” and that means yours is not excluded.
You know how a cistern, when the pipe is cut off, soon stands empty, but a fountain bubbles up fresh forever. Our own strength is just such a cistern. It is measurable, it ebbs, and sooner or later it feels like dust in the throat. And here you are, aware that your own resources have been drained. That is not a place to despair; it is the very spot where the Lord’s strength is made perfect. He never suffers a day of His children to last longer than their sustenance. “As thy days, so shall thy strength be.” Not yesterday’s strength for today, nor tomorrow’s gathered up in advance, but strength woven to fit the hours as they come, strength that is really His own life pulsing in you. And what He is to you, He will be to your child, for He carries the lambs in His bosom and gently leads those that are with young.
Do not mistake a buoyant feeling for the joy that strengthens. The joy of the Lord is a quieter, deeper thing. It can sit beside a sickbed and keep watch after the candle is blown out. It is the solid rest of a soul that knows itself forgiven, loved, kept. It is the child nestling down in the Father’s hand, even when the dark is thick. A shower of pain may wet your cheeks, but the raindrops can become prisms through which His love shines in unexpected colors. The glad news of the gospel is printed best on paper that has been dampened with tears. So do not race after high spirits; let the quiet confidence that He is near steal over you both. That is your strength.
The same blessed Spirit who first led you to the foot of the cross is leading you now, step by step, through this valley, and He will lead your teenager too. You are not the ultimate keeper of your child’s health or faith; you are a fellow-traveler with them, and the Shepherd walks in front of both. He does not drive the weary ewe and her lamb too fast; He makes them lie down. Rest there.
So let me commend you and your dear young one into those keeping hands. Lord Jesus, Thou who didst take our infirmities and bear our sicknesses, look upon this weary parent and their suffering child. They have no strength of their own, and they look to Thee. Lay Thy healing hand upon them both. Quiet the fever, lift the heaviness, and let refreshment flow where exhaustion had settled. Renew their strength as only Thou canst, like the eagle’s wings restored. And in the waiting hours, be their peace and their patient hope. We ask this in Thy name, O Great Physician, who livest to make intercession for us. Amen.