The Nurse Who Worked by Candlelight

In 2010, after the earthquake leveled Port-au-Prince, a American nurse named Sarah Collins arrived at a makeshift clinic built from tarps and scrap wood. Generators had failed. Supplies were almost gone. Hundreds waited in the dark.

Sarah didn't bark orders or demand more resources. She knelt beside a teenage boy whose leg was shattered, held his hand, and whispered, "I see you. We're going to get through this." She worked through the night by candlelight — setting bones, cleaning wounds, singing hymns when the morphine ran out. She moved from patient to patient with a quietness that steadied the whole room.

A journalist later asked why she didn't push harder for evacuations or make a scene to attract media attention. Sarah shrugged. "Yelling doesn't set a broken bone. These people didn't need someone loud. They needed someone close."

That is the portrait Isaiah paints of God's Chosen Servant. He will not shout or raise His voice in the streets. He will not break a bruised reed or snuff out a smoldering wick. In a world that equates power with volume, the Almighty sends His justice through gentleness. The servant comes not to crush what is fragile but to mend it, not to extinguish what is flickering but to cup His hands around the flame until it holds.

The God who stretches out the heavens does His most sacred work on His knees.