You lie awake yourself, listening in the dark for the small sounds of a house that will not settle, footsteps, a sigh, the creak of a bed that gives no rest. It is no small thing to watch your child suffer, even in so quiet a way as sleeplessness. Your heart aches with each hour that slips past, and you wonder how she will manage when Friday dawns. But I would have you remember this: our Lord sees the sparrow fall, and He numbers the hairs of her head. The same tender eye that marks the tossing of the sea marks the restlessness of her pillow, and He is not unmoved.
Sleep, you know, is one of God’s choicest medicines, better than all the apothecary’s draughts. He gives it to the labouring man after his toil, and He gives it to His beloved, not as a wage for perfect trust, but simply because He loves them. When the psalmist says, “He giveth his beloved sleep,” it is after he has told us that it is vain to rise early and sit up late, eating the bread of sorrows. Your daughter has worked hard; she has given her mind to her books and her heart to her hope. But in the end, neither her success nor her sleep hangs upon her own striving. They rest in the hand of a Father who knows what His child needs before she asks.
Picture her, then, not as a student facing a stern examiner, but as a lamb that the Shepherd carries close to His heart. When a sheep is lame, or weary, or has wandered into some rough place, the Good Shepherd does not drive it on with sharp cries. He lifts it up, lays it across His shoulders, and brings it home. Your daughter’s fears, fears of failure, of forgetting, of a door closed against her future, are the rough places. But Christ is gentler than her anxious thoughts. He does not despise the struggle of a soul that wants to serve Him in the healing of others. Tell her that she may lay down the burden of performance and simply ask for the sleep He gives to His beloved. No prayer is too small: “Lord, let me rest, for You are awake” is a cry He will never ignore.
And you, dear mother, may do the same. The Lord who stilled the tempest with a word can quiet the flutter of a mind too full of tomorrow. I remember that our Saviour once found His own disciples sleeping on the night of His greatest sorrow, and He did not rage at them, He said, “The spirit truly is willing, but the flesh is weak.” What a merciful word for all of us who are weary! So do not scold yourself for your anxiety, as though your faith must be flawless before God will act. Cast the care of these next days right upon Him, who cares for you both.
I pray, then, that this very night the Lord will draw the curtains of His peace around your daughter’s bed, and that she will sink into a sleep so pure and deep that she wakes as one refreshed by angels. And when she sits at her exam, may the quiet confidence of that rest remain with her. May the Lord bring to her memory all she has diligently stored, and may He give her a clear mind and a steady hand. We ask no more than she needs, and no less than He has promised to those who trust Him. And may you, too, find rest, even while you watch and wait, for He who keeps Israel neither slumbers nor sleeps.
Lord Jesus, you who took little children in your arms and blessed them, look now upon this daughter, weary and heavy-laden. Speak peace to her soul, and give her body the sleep that restores. Calm the racing thoughts, ease the tension of hope and fear, and let her know in the darkness that she is held by the love that will never let her go. For her mother, too, we ask the same gift: quietness of heart and confidence in you. And beyond the exam, we entrust all her future into your wise and woundable hands, for you do all things well. Amen.
