The Glory of His Grace

There are those times when, despite the use of God-appointed means, joy seems to tarry. Darkness hovers all about us, and there is a serious threat to our souls that we stop doing what is clearly our duty to do. 

How do we press on when joy escapes us? We think and pray like the psalmist: 

“Restore our fortunes, O LORD, like streams in the Negeb! Those who sow in tears shall reap with shouts of joy! He who goes out weeping, bearing the seed for sowing, shall come home with shouts of joy, bringing his sheaves with him” (Psalm 126:4-6). 

The real question in view is, ‘How do we plow and sow the seed of the Word in our hearts in seasons when heart work is tremendously hard work?’ Clearly our hearts need the work, for without breaking up the fallow ground or planting the seeds of the Word, there will be no rich harvest of joy in God. But what do we do when that work doesn’t seem to be producing any fruit? 

We listen to Scripture in faith. We keep sowing, and we keep plowing through the fields of our hearts, all the while with tears streaming down our brokenhearted faces, knowing that God has promised: as you keep laboring over your heart according to Scripturally appointed means, God will bring joy. 

Yes, there are times when it seems like all the work we do in our hearts is coming to nothing. But, ultimately, God who dwells richly in us through His Spirit will produce a harvest of righteousness through sanctification. So we don’t hide our sorrow. Instead, we keep on sowing, trusting in God’s promise: He who goes out weeping and sowing will come home with shouts of joy. 

There is a dark night, but there is always the light of the morning. 

Ever feel like it’s no use to keep fighting the fight of faith? John Piper had some encouraging thoughts today on the Desiring God blog about God’s deliverance in the last hour, and the importance of hoping till the end. 

Greatly affected as my wife and I were when we first heard about the death of Abraham and Molly Piper’s daughter Felicity, for whatever reason lately we have been freshly pricked in the heart by their story. Even though it’s been awhile since she died, whenever we stop and think about it, or read the poems or the blog, it always brings fresh grief and pain. And she wasn’t our daughter.

Just about every night this week it’s come up before bedtime, and it always ends in tears—both for the vividness of the pain of searing loss and for the steadfastness with which Christ holds on to them. This morning I listened to Watermark’s Glory Baby, until my heart felt like it was going to rip out of my chest. 

What strikes me is how much God has impacted us through their sufferings, and how much more we delight in the glorious mercy of Christ because of His work in their life. Likewise, there is another loss of great price that burns on my mind, the loss of another child—the Son of God, Jesus Christ. Both bring always afresh the burning grief that tenderizes the heart and makes the mercy of God that much more precious. 

And somehow, in the end, I’m grateful for the tears. Maybe it’s because I know they will be wiped away in everlasting bliss—for Abraham, for Molly, for me, for my wife, and every other saint in God’s kingdom. This was a poem written by Abraham at Easter: 

6 Months Gone at Easter Time

Empty hangers, empty closet, empty clothes.
Empty crib, empty bath.
Empty bottles, empty breasts.
Empty lungs, empty blood, empty heart.
Empty grave.