I will not leave you comfortless: I will come to you.
John 14:18 KJV
In times of uncertainty, we look for someone to tell us that we’re going to be okay. We want assurance that we’re going to make it through to the other side and be better for it.
For me, that woman was my grandmother. And, according to my recollection, my grandmother was a towering woman. Not because she was a giant in size (although she was ample), but because her faith moved mountains.
Throughout my childhood and young adult years, seeing her in her familiar oversized brown chair with the Bible sprawled open on her full lap instantly brought me comfort. If Jesus had a phone, I think she would have had His direct number. I’m sure all of His angelic staff would have received a memo to the effect: “If Rose calls, put her through!” Her connection to God was one I’ve rarely encountered.
In difficult seasons of pain, heartbreak, loss, or in need of direction, she was the one to whom I ran for advice, comfort, and prayer. I shared my burdens with her more times than I can remember.
I’ve found myself wanting to run to my grandmother for reassurance once again as overwhelm has threatened to swallow me. I’m feeling uncertain about the future: I think it’s safe to say that we’re all in a time of uncertainty. If we’re not struggling with issues within our families, our health, or our emotions, we only have to turn on the news for a few seconds to realize we’ve entered a perilous season like never before within our society.
In the middle of my fears, I’ve longed to hear my grandmother say, as she did so many times before: “I’ve prayed, and God has told me, ‘It’s going to be alright.’” But she went on to heaven many years ago. I can no longer hear her voice.
In the last year, my husband and I have moved to a new city and joined apartment living, being surrounded by thousands of people daily. This is the complete opposite of what was our normal country-living lives; and amid a pandemic. All the change is hard–welcomed or not.
One night, as the overwhelm threatened to drown me, with worship music playing softly in the background, I cried out to God for comfort: “Dear Lord, I need to feel Your nearness. Just let me know You are here.” Immediately, I felt His Presence enter the room enveloping me with comfort, peace, and assurance that He (alone) is in control, as tears flowed from my eyes.
Perhaps I am experiencing just a bit of what the disciples felt in John 14. There, Jesus speaks with the disciples before His impending death. Their Master on whom they had relied for help and guidance is leaving. They will no longer be able to physically see, touch, or hear Him.
Yet, He offers a promise that although He is going away, He “will not leave [them] as orphans,” but will send them a “Helper, the Holy Spirit” to dwell with them (John 14:18, 26 ESV).
Just as He did for the disciples, Christ still offers us the comfort, guidance, reassurance, and direction that we need. This same Holy Spirit is dwelling within us and extends the same blessings. There is so much hope in this promise.
Although my grandmother is gone, and there are times I have no one on this earth to run to for comfort, I can run to the One who holds ultimate peace. Because of Him, I am never alone. He is my Helper, Deliverer, Encourager, and Friend.
Dear friend, I encourage you to remember that this same Jesus holds hope out to you. He offers His promise to “never leave nor forsake you.” (Hebrews 13:5 ESV) You are His child, and He is whispering in your ear, just as my grandmother extolled so many times before: “It’s going to be alright!”
As it seems the world around us is changing by the minute, remind us that You never change. With the chaos, peril, and fear rushing in to upheave us, please remind us that You are our refuge, strength, and help in trouble (Ps. 46:1). Help us trust that you are providing even when it looks like we are going without. Fill us with Your peace and wrap us in Your grace. Thank You for Your love and mercy.
In Jesus’ Name, Amen.
This is an updated edition of a post originally published on Leaving a Well