There are moments in ministry when words fall away. When all I can do is sit beside someone whose grief is too deep for explanation, whose sorrow feels like a weight pressing the breath out of their soul. When someone says, “I believe, but I just can’t feel any hope right this second…”, these are holy moments because God is mysteriously present even when He seems silent.

Psalm 88 gives voice to this kind of darkness. It is the only psalm that ends without a turn toward praise. There is no “but I will hope” here, no “yet I will rejoice.” Just the unfiltered cry of someone who feels abandoned: “You have put me in the lowest pit, in the darkest depths… Why, Lord, do you reject me?”

This psalm reminds me that lament has a place in the life of faith. It is not faithless to grieve without resolution. It is faithful to bring our honest pain before the Lord, even when we can’t see the light. Lament is a beautiful act of worship that draws us near to God, even through tears. Bringing our honest heart, pain, confusion, and longing before the One who understands every sorrow is a beautiful and faithful form of worship. In lament, we don’t hide our grief but transform it into prayer, trusting that God receives every cry with compassion. Worship is not only praise in joy but also trust in the midst of suffering.

Recently, I’ve had the undeserved privilege of getting time with people whose hearts are shattered… parents who have lost children, families broken by tragedy, souls weary from relentless disease and pain. In those spaces, God has not asked me to fix or preach but simply to sit, to be present in the sorrow, because hope can’t be imagined just yet.

And as I sit in the pit, one hand on my struggling friend(s) and the other hand on the ladder to climb out, the memory of God’s faithfulness that has lifted me from my own muck and mire reminds me that joy will come, but I don’t rush it. I let lament have its full voice, trusting that the God who hears in the darkness will, in His time, speak light again.

If you are walking with someone who can’t see the dawn, remember: you do not need to drag them into the light. You only need to hold a hand in the dark. The light belongs to God.