| "A bruised reed He will not break, and smoking flax | | | | Dear grieving friend, our precious Savior has allowed |
| He will not quench..." (Isaiah 42:3 NKJ). | | | | a sweeping hurricane to carry off what is so dear to |
| Jesus didn't--and doesn't--go by our theory of survival | | | | us! We feel our treasure being ripped from the core |
| of the fittest. He takes our bruised reed that twists | | | | of our existence and, when we reach into our heart |
| in the storm and strengthens and straightens it | | | | to find something to assuage the terrifying |
| enough so that it makes music for Him and others; | | | | hopelessness, all we find is a hole so large we could |
| He takes our dimly burning wick and tends it until it | | | | sink in it. What is so stirring about this particular verse |
| can give light for others groping in their dark night of | | | | is God's promise that He will never allow life's |
| the soul. We can take glorious comfort in this | | | | lightening bolts to devastate us completely. |
| thought. | | | | This verse helped me mightily in the severe times |
| There's a German legend that tells of a baron who | | | | after our son's death. It was enormously comforting |
| built his castle on the Rhine. One too-quiet and lonely | | | | to visualize this weak little reed being lifted and held |
| day he hung wires from crag to crag and turret to | | | | ever so gently by a Man who understood every |
| turret, hoping that the winds, as they blew upon this | | | | pang of grief I was feeling. I envisioned strength and |
| great Aeolian harp, might make sweet music and | | | | courage returning as I felt Jesus lift this |
| lessen his loneliness. The baron waited patiently every | | | | terribly-broken reed and whisper to me, "Dear child, |
| day for his beautiful music. Every day the winds blew | | | | don't you know that I take broken reeds and make |
| from the four corners of heaven, but no music came. | | | | some of them pens to write of My love, using My |
| Then one night a hurricane charged in, tossing the | | | | own sacred blood for ink? Some of these broken |
| Rhine into a fury. The lightening pierced the black | | | | reeds I take and make instruments of lovely music |
| night and the thunder shook the land with its uproar. | | | | of praise. Handel was one of those drooping reeds |
| The winds seemed to go mad. The baron rushed to | | | | when I gave him inspiration and strength to write |
| the great castle door to view the terrifying scene | | | | Messiah. Yet other broken reeds I make so strong |
| and suddenly he heard the sound of what seemed | | | | that they become pillars whereon others may rest." |
| angels' music. As he listened with awe, he realized | | | | O friend, let Jesus take us and make of us what He |
| that his harp had come to life at last. The terrifying | | | | will, for it is the broken reeds and smoking wicks that |
| tempest had given it new and sacred life. | | | | He loves so much! |