OH MY SOUL

Throughout life I have experienced the highs and lows and as a pastor, spiritual director and friend, I have walked alongside others through seasons of disappointment, disillusionment, grief, and deep pain. Over the years, I’ve come to recognise and appreciate a sacredness in sorrow that resists being rushed - grief is holy ground.

The Psalms have been faithful companions in this landscape - lament, an expression of sorrow or grief, is the most common type. Cries of anger, anguish, disappointment and abandonment echo through the prayerbook of God’s people—prayers that give voice to what is felt and present. They offer a vision of what it means to bring our full selves before God—not only in our praise and trust, but also in our pain, our doubts, and our questions. With confidence, they reveal that lament is not the absence of faith, but faith in its rawest form—vulnerable, honest, unfiltered, real.

Lamenting slows us down. It invites us to sit with what is—to speak honestly about what has been lost, what hurts, and what still aches. This is a sacred and courageous act, calling us to be fully present, resisting the urge to fix, minimise, analyse, theologise, or explain. Yet the Psalms also teach us that lament is not without hope for it is how we remain in relationship with God and with one another. And as we learn to move towards and embrace what feels hard, what feels uncomfortable and dark, we trust that in time our eyes will begin to adjust and notice moments of light, however dim or bright. “New life starts in the dark. Whether it is a seed in the ground, a baby in the womb, or Jesus in the tomb—it starts in the dark,” writes Barbara Brown Taylor. In this way, lament need not end with despair; it becomes a threshold and a moment in which we begin to sense a God that listens deeply, grieves with us, waits with us, and companions us with a steady, abiding, loving presence.

And for those of us who walk alongside others in their pain, Proverbs 25:20 offers a quiet but profound reminder: “Singing cheerful songs to a person with a heavy heart is like taking someone’s coat in cold weather or pouring vinegar on a wound.” Let us therefore receive the wisdom that sometimes, ministry is not about words or answers, but about presence—a shared silence, a tear held alongside another’s, or the simple honesty of saying, “I don’t have answers, but I’m here.” May we ask for the grace to know when to be still, tender, and brave enough to bear witness without needing to fix or explain. To hold space with love and reverence, and to accompany another with compassion and a steadfast presence.

For Reflection

• How might I begin by turning toward God, simply acknowledging the One who listens?

• What emotions quietly rise when I allow myself to feel without judgment—whether sorrow, anger, or uncertainty?

• What is the deep longing or need that my soul holds right now?

• Is there a small thread of trust, however fragile, that I can hold onto amidst the pain?

• How might I offer my vulnerability and ask for help without expecting immediate answers but with the hope of being met?

• In this stillness, is there a word of gratitude I can speak, not because everything is resolved, but because I trust or hope that I have been heard?

  
  

• As I companion someone in their moment of need, what might I need to let go of as I seek to be fully present to their story? In what ways can I embody God’s faithful presence—grieving, waiting, and hoping alongside another—without needing to provide answers or relief?