Last night I laid awake most of the night. I told you that. I drifted from one troubled dream to the next, and every moment of lucidity was spent praying for you. I know you well enough to know you were awake, too.
Today was a hard day for you.
And because you are so loved, it was a hard day for those who love you.
How you have loved me—I cannot count the ways. It’s like you have a radar for every person who might be fighting something hard. You text. You call. You write. You give. You pray. You drive thirty miles just to be in the same room. Often. I don’t know how to be you to—you.
And maybe it’s not what we think. Maybe it will be nothing or at least something not so big. Maybe it’s a fluke or a temptation we’re supposed to be strong for. Maybe we failed. Or maybe we succeeded when we sat hand in hand last night and prayed. That is the happiest place in the midst of all this. I can’t apologize for my tears because there’s just nothing to be sorry for. On the hardest days of my life, you have been there. When I was sick, you were there. When I was afraid of losing my son, you were there. When I was blinded by constant fear, you were there. When I couldn’t pay my bills, you were there. How many times have you knocked on my front door when I was just about to lose hope?
Tonight I hid in the bathroom and wept. All day there have been texts and emails and children and work, and all I really wanted was to hide in the tiny half bath with the navy flowered wallpaper and cry for the grief that fear holds over us. I’ve watched you stand like a fortress through some hard, hard stuff, so I stood in the locked bathroom and said to the Lord, “Please hear me. Hear. Me. Please make this go away.” And this broken piece of clay has no right whatsoever to demand anything of her Potter, this I know. But, I thought of David in his despair. Do this, he prayed. Be this. For this. “Answer me when I call, O God of my righteousness! You have given me relief when I was in distress. Be gracious to me and hear my prayer!” (Ps. 4:1). That’s some gutsy talk. And ordinarily, I’m so aware of my shortcomings before the Father that I know I can’t make any demands of Him. But for you, I might dare to demand a sentence, one sentence. Hear me.
But then—after his deep despair and hefty demands—David goes to sleep. Just goes to sleep in a way I cannot imagine or replicate. “In peace I will both lie down and sleep; for you alone, O LORD, make me to dwell to in safety” (Ps. 4:8). And I know what he’s talking about. He’s not talking physical safety, which is the guarantee we all want. We want an ironclad agreement that following Jesus will mean life as we want it to be. But that’s not it. “All who desire to live a godly life in Christ Jesus will be persecuted,” we know (see 2 Tim. 3:12). Or at least, will be pierced by the edges of the Fall. And tonight, the edges of the Fall are razor-sharp. But instead of blood there’s a flow of tears and fear and grief, and all I can say has just dried up except this: no one loves you like He does.
And that’s why you can sleep tonight in peace. He loves you like no one else. His love does not change with time or shift with shadow of circumstance. His love is a steady anchor, sure and strong. It transcends height and depth, today and tomorrow and next year, and anything else we can conjure up. No scenario we can create will escape His love. The most fearful outcome we can forecast will still end with you wrapped up in the love of God who sent His Son to die for you. He has loved you with an everlasting love. A love that laid its life down when you didn’t want it to. A love that resuscitated your dead heart and gave it eternal life. A love that cast your worst sins deep and wide and far to be covered by Jesus and remembered no more. No more. And what’s more, when I look at you I think of Him. So I know He didn’t quit His work at the early stages but has kept on working out what He intended long ago. He’s making you like Him. He always does this. Why is He so faithful to finish what He’s started?
So you, with all the grief and fear and anxiety and unknown, you can lie down and sleep in peace. Not because life is easy and put back in its place, but because it’s not. You can sleep precisely because it’s not. Because nothing will have the final say over your future except the God who ordained your days long before one of them came to be. He wins. The God who loves you not in spite of anything but because He is love.
You can hurt and wonder and struggle to find an empty seat for trust in a room full of fear. But you can also know that no one loves you like the Lord. And He has hemmed you in—behind, before, all around. He’s pressed in close. So close. You couldn’t escape if you wanted to.
Tonight it’s fear.
Of pain.
Of cancer.
Of miscarriage.
Of death.
Of humiliation.
Of betrayal.
Of financial ruin.
Of loneliness.
Of consequences.
Of failure.
Of wayward children.
Of an errant spouse.
Of being misunderstood.
Of losing it all.
Of anything you can think of.
But.
But God.
But God is rich in mercy.
Because of the great love with which He has loved us—even when we were dead in our trespasses—
but God made us alive together with Christ—
by grace you have been saved through faith.
Oh, how He loves you tonight. Tonight in the face of fear, you can boldly lie down and sleep in peace. For He alone makes you to dwell in safety. Soul safety.
For further reading: Psalm 4 and 139, Romans 5 and 8, 1 Peter 5: 6-11.
Photo by Leon Biss on Unsplash
Glenna Marshall is married to her pastor, William, and lives in rural Southeast Missouri where she tries and fails to keep up with her two energetic sons. She is the author of The Promise is His Presence (P&R) and Everyday Faithfulness (Crossway), and Memorizing Scripture (Moody). Connect with her on Instagram, Facebook, and Twitter.
Ranelle Dunn says
So beautifully said. I know this was SO encouraging!
Margaret W. says
Outstanding! And desperately needed tonight. God is rich in mercy and what a delight to worship Him.