You do not need to extensively in Christian history or Christian biography to spot the connection between sorrow and sanctification. Though it is certainly not always the case, very often the people who are particularly used by the Lord are the same people who endure suffering. De Witt Talmage makes this point well in a quote from one of his sermons.

Call the roll of all the eminently pious of all the ages and you will find them the sons and daughters of sorrow. The Maronites say that one characteristic of the cedar tree is that when the air is full of snow, and it begins to descend, the tree lifts its branches in a way better to receive the snow and bear up under it, and I know by much observation that the grandest cedars of Christian character lift higher their branches toward God, when the snows of trouble are coming. Lord Nelson’s coffin was made out of the masts of the ship L’Orient, in which he had fought so bravely, and your throne in heaven, oh, suffering child of God, will be built out of conquered earthly disasters.
What gave John Bunyan such a wondrous dream of the celestial city? The Bedford penitentiary.
What gave Richard Baxter such power to tell of The Saints’ Everlasting Rest, and give his immortal Call to the Unconverted? Physical disease which racked every nerve of his body.
What made George Whitefield so mighty in saving souls, bringing ten thousand to God when others brought a hundred? Persecution that caricatured and assailed him all up and down England, and dead vermin thrown in his face when he was preaching.
What mellowed and glorified Wilberforce’s Christian character? A financial misfortune that led him to write: “I know not why my life is spared so long, except it be to show that a man can be as happy without a fortune as with one.”
What gave John Milton such deep spiritual eyesight that he could see the battle of angels? Extinguishment of physical eyesight.
What is the highest observatory for studying the stars of hope and faith and spiritual promise? The believer’s sick-bed.
What proclaims the richest and most golden harvests that wave on all the hills of heavenly rapture? The snows, the deep snows, the awful snows of earthly calamity. And that thought is one of the treasures of the snow.

He told me of a day he had awoken sick in his heart, sick in his soul. He didn’t know what to think, he didn’t know what to do, he didn’t know what to believe. After all those years of marriage, all those years of joy, all those years of living life together, his wife had gone to heaven and he had been left on earth. Though days and weeks had passed, still he was in the depths of despair.

He told how he had laid in bed for longer than usual that morning, remembering the years of her decline, the years in which illness had been an unwelcome but constant presence in their home. He thought of how weak she had become and how tired she had been—tired in body, tired in mind, tired in spirit. He thought of how, as she had approached heaven, she had gained an even deeper assessment of her own sinfulness, and an even deeper sorrow for it. The light of heaven, drawing closer in her mind, had given her such clarity. He thought of how often they had wept together—wept for what had been and for what would never be. He thought of her final day, her final words, her final breath.
Desperate to escape the turmoil of his thoughts, he got up, got dressed, and drove to a nearby park where he began to hike a familiar trail. He needed to be alone, but not alone—to be in nature where the heavens declare the glory of God and the mountains proclaim divine majesty. That trail led through deep woods and then up a long, slow incline. Little rocks skittered beneath his feet and great slabs of stone loomed to either side. Then, just before the trail began to loop back and return the way it came, it led to the cusp of a canyon cut like a deep gash across the landscape.
He told how for a time—it could have been moments and it could have been hours—he stood at the edge of the canyon, gazing into its depths, his mind still disquieted, his heart still downcast. And then, almost at a whim, he lifted his voice and shouted into the void, “Will you never be sick again?” And a moment later, first far in the distance and then closer and closer, the echo returned, resounding from rock to rock and crag to crag: “Never—sick—again!”
He shouted again, this time his voice just a little louder, “Will you never be tired again?” “Never—tired—again!” came the reply.
“Will you never weep again?” “Never—weep—again!”
“Will you never sin again?” “Never—sin—again!”
Mustering all the strength that remained, he shouted one more time, “Will you never die again?” And once more the echo returned from the canyon below: “Never—die—again.”
And as the echo faded for the final time, he was aware that the voice that had reached his ear was his own. But he was aware as well that the voice had spoken truth, that the voice had preached to his heart. For he knew that the echo of the canyon was the echo of heaven.

Inspired by the sermons of De Witt Talmage.

This sponsored post was provided by Burke Care, and written by Jen Arend , which invites you to schedule care today with a certified biblical counselor.
Is there one Christmas theme that strikes you each year without fail? For me, it is “Immanuel, God is with us” (Matthew 1:23).[1] What is it about this name of Jesus that is so gripping? God became a man, stooping down to this sin-cursed earth, taking on the weakness of human flesh, and humbling himself to the nth degree to “save His people from their sins” (Matthew 1:21). A stable for a King. Washing dirty feet. A criminal’s death. God is with us… 
“For you know the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ; although He was rich, for your sake He became poor, so that by His poverty you might become rich.” — 2 Corinthians 8:9
Our God is a God who came near. Jesus, Immanuel, God is with us. Collectively and historically in the birth of Christ, God showed that He is a God who draws near. Immanuel is also incredibly personal and intensely practical, as we live our lives each day. God is with you. 
Think of your fears. Fear needs a person.[2] When a child wakes up in the middle of the night, crying inconsolably, what does she do? There is no peace until she is in the arms of her loving mom or dad. She runs to find them, and even an attuned parent will run to meet her in her distress. The tears may continue, and her heart may still race. But by the comforting embrace of her parents, she is eventually consoled. Peace floods her heart, and she can rest again. Fear needs a person. Immanuel, God is with us.
Where do you turn when anxiety strikes? Most of us struggle alone, as though we are orphans. You are not an orphan. Immanuel, God is with us. You can run to him! He is near, and His nearness eventually quells your fears, giving you that “peace which transcends all understanding” (Philippians 4:7). Often, we read Philippians 4:6 out of context, like a band aid that is supposed to help us with our anxiety. “Do not be anxious about anything…” Have you ever noticed what comes right before Philippians 4:6? The Lord is near. The Lord is near. The Lord is near. Immanuel, God is with us.
How might Immanuel change you this season as you face your anxiety? 
1.      Remember, you are not alone. You are not an orphan, crying out in the dark with no one to help. God hears your cry. As the most attuned Father, He runs to help. He is with you.
2.      Remember, you can run to Him. Will he rebuke you in your fears? No! Would a good parent do that to a frightened child? Of course, not! Jesus is a tender Shepherd, beckoning you to come to Him (Matt. 11:28). He will not turn you away in your fears. You have a Father, compassionate and loving, welcoming you with open arms.
3.      In running to Him, you may not find immediate peace. It may take time, even a long season of remembering who your Father is for you. Just as a child will require time to calm down in the presence of love, so too, you may need time in the presence of the Lord. That is okay. Give yourself time, even as you draw near to the Lord. 
In your struggle to believe, remember He is Immanuel, God is with us.
[1] All Scripture references: Holman Christian Standard Bible.
[2] Lauren Whitman, “Every Day Problems in Counseling,” Lecture 10, (Glenside, PA: Westminster Theological Seminary).
Immanuel, who will we go to? You have the words of eternal life. (Jn. 6:68)
Immanuel, when I am filled with cares, your comfort brings me joy. (Ps. 94:19)
Immanuel: Do not fear for I am with you. Do not be afraid, for I am your God. I will strengthen you; I will help you; I will hold on to you with My righteous right hand. (Is. 41:10)
Application:
1.      Where do you turn when you are feeling anxious? Do you depend on your own strength to fight your anxiety? Like a child, run to Jesus. Fear needs a person.
2.      Is there a Scripture that brings you comfort in times of distress? Meditate on that truth or even write it on a card to refer to when you are fearful.
3.      When you feel overcome with anxiety, can you begin with a simple, “Help, Lord!”? Turning to the Lord in any way may just bring a measure of unexpected peace, as you turn and reflect on the character of your heavenly Father.
4.      As you pursue deeper fellowship in the local church, is there someone that you can ask to pray for you? Turning to the Lord is best done in community with other believers. Remember, you are not alone.
As you celebrate this Christmas season, remember Immanuel, God is with us. And if we at Burke Care can help you or a loved one draw near to the Lord in this season, we would count that a great privilege.