The days after Christmas often bring a mix of emotions. The lights are still twinkling, but the wrapping paper has been cleared away and the quiet settles in. After weeks of planning, preparing, and pouring ourselves out, it can feel strange to slow down. The rush fades, and what remains is a reflection of joy, fatigue, and sometimes feelings we did not expect.
For me, one of those feelings is lament. I used to think lament was one of those big, “churchy” words, mostly because I had never taken the time to truly understand it.
Lament is not anger or ingratitude. It is not a lack of faith. Lament is the honest naming of sorrow, weariness, and longing that we bring to God. It happens when joy and exhaustion sit side by side… and when we refuse to believe that one cancels out the other.
Lament shows up in ways I do not always expect. Headaches. Restless nights. The quiet replay of words I wish I had said or wish I could take back. It gently warns me when I am stretched too thin, when I have said “yes” too many times, or when I have ignored the places in my heart that need care. It reveals where I am running on empty in my work, my home, and my faith.
When lament goes unnamed, it often spills out as frustration or resentment. Quick words. Heavy sighs. A short fuse with the people I love most. These moments are not signs of failure. They are invitations to pause and listen to what my heart has been carrying.
I am currently working through the Psalms in Community Bible Study, and they are filled with lament. They give us language for bringing sorrow honestly before God. Jesus Himself shows us what this looks like. In Mark 3, He felt both sorrow and anger at the hardness of the Pharisees’ hearts. In Gethsemane, He prayed through deep anguish and surrender: “Not my will, but Yours” (Mark 14:36). Jesus was faithful without pretending it didn’t hurt.
I am learning to see lament not as something to avoid, but as something to practice. It is not permission to unravel, but permission to be honest. When I allow space for it, I begin to notice the deeper places in need of care. The exhaustion. The grief. The longing for things to be made right.
We pour out day after day. Balancing home life and careers. Late night worries. Last minute appointments. And when we are running dry, lament becomes the quiet prayer beneath it all. It shows up in tired eyes, quick reactions, and the moments we wish we could redo.
Lament is not proof that we are failing. It is proof that we have loved deeply, given generously, and trusted God enough to bring Him our whole hearts. And right there, in that tender space between weariness and faith, Jesus meets us.
He meets us not with shame, but with compassion. Not with condemnation, but with care. Lament draws us closer to honesty, to healing, and to Him.
As we step into a new year, may we bring our lament, and every other emotion we have been holding, to the One who can hold it all. We do not have to fear it. We do not have to bury it. We can pray it, live it, and offer it to the One who understands it best.
Let us be brave enough to let it lead us.
Not to despair, but to wholeness. Not away from Him, but closer to Him.
Trust in him at all times, you people; pour out your hearts to him, for God is our refuge. — Psalm 62:8
Grace in the Disarray 