There are moments in grief when words seem impossible to find. We may know exactly what has happened, yet struggle to explain what the loss has done to us; sometimes the pain is too personal to share, while at other times we fear that expressing our deepest feelings will make those around us uncomfortable. We learn to answer questions with familiar assurances, telling people we are managing or taking things one day at a time, even when our private experience is considerably more complicated.

What concerns me is how easily this silence can become mistaken for strength. We may believe that remaining composed demonstrates resilience, that withholding our questions reflects spiritual maturity, or that expressing anger and disappointment somehow diminishes our faith; yet beneath that restraint, grief may continue searching for acknowledgment. The emotions we struggle to articulate do not necessarily disappear simply because we have learned to conceal them.

One of the remarkable features of Scripture is that it does not require us to maintain this appearance of composure before God. Within the Book of Psalms, we encounter prayers that express sorrow, confusion, fear, abandonment, protest, and even anger. These expressions are not preserved as examples of faithlessness but as part of the worshiping community’s ongoing relationship with God. They remind us that genuine faith has room for emotions that cannot be neatly explained or quickly resolved.

I find this particularly meaningful when considering the relationship between biblical lament and the practice of journaling because both invite us to give language to experiences that might otherwise remain unspoken, and when approached with care, they can help us discover that emotional honesty and spiritual trust are not necessarily opposing responses to suffering.

When Grief Needs a Language of Its Own

Grief is deeply personal, but it is rarely simple. We may feel sadness alongside gratitude, anger alongside love, relief alongside guilt, or hope alongside profound uncertainty. These experiences can be difficult to reconcile, particularly when we believe we should feel only one thing at a time.

For someone grieving the death of a loved one, even the relationship itself may become more complicated in memory. We may remember tenderness and conflict, meaningful conversations and unfinished disagreements, moments of closeness and things we wish had been different. Loss does not erase the complexity of a relationship. In some circumstances, it brings that complexity into sharper focus because opportunities for further conversation have ended.

This is one reason familiar expressions of encouragement, however well-intended, can sometimes feel insufficient. Being reminded that God is good does not necessarily explain why a particular loss occurred. Being told to remain strong may leave little room to acknowledge exhaustion. Even the assurance that time brings healing can sound distant when someone is struggling to make sense of the present moment.

The lament psalms offer a different approach; rather than beginning with an explanation of suffering, they often begin with the experience of the sufferer. They allow distress to be named before attempting to interpret it. Their language acknowledges that the relationship between human pain and divine faithfulness is not always easily understood.

In Psalm 13, David begins by asking, “How long wilt thou forget me, O LORD? forever?” His question communicates the anguish of someone who experiences God’s apparent absence. The psalm does not begin by correcting that feeling. It gives the feeling words and directs those words toward God.

This deserves our attention. David’s question is not necessarily a declaration that God has abandoned him; it is an expression of what abandonment feels like from within his suffering. The difference between what we experience and what we believe to be ultimately true is often where some of our deepest spiritual struggles unfold.

For grieving people, recognizing the difference can be liberating. We may feel abandoned without concluding that God has abandoned us. We may struggle to pray without believing that prayer has become meaningless. We may question what has happened without rejecting everything we have previously come to know about God’s character.

Lament allows us to acknowledge these tensions without pretending they have already been resolved.

The Psalms and the Courage of Spiritual Honesty

Although the lament psalms share certain characteristics, they do not all follow an identical emotional journey. Some move from distress toward renewed confidence, while others leave the reader with unresolved sorrow. This diversity is one of their greatest pastoral strengths because it reflects the varied ways human beings experience suffering.

Psalm 13 begins with repeated questions about God’s apparent distance but eventually expresses trust in His mercy. The movement is significant, yet it should not be treated as a formula requiring every grieving person to progress from sorrow to confidence within a single prayer. David’s words describe a particular expression of faith, not a timetable imposed upon everyone who suffers.

Psalm 42 offers another perspective. The psalmist remembers earlier experiences of worship and fellowship while struggling with tears, discouragement, and the painful question of God’s apparent absence. The repeated invitation to hope in God exists alongside continuing emotional distress. Hope is present, but it does not erase the sorrow that gives rise to the prayer.

Then we encounter Psalm 88, one of the most unsettling prayers in Scripture. The psalmist describes overwhelming affliction, isolation, and a sense of divine distance. Unlike many other laments, the psalm does not conclude with an unmistakable declaration of restored confidence. Its final words leave the reader within the darkness of the sufferer’s experience.

I believe the presence of Psalm 88 within Scripture is profoundly important for anyone who accompanies grieving people. It challenges our tendency to insist that every expression of suffering must end with reassurance. Sometimes people are not ready to speak confidently about hope because their immediate experience remains dominated by loss. Their inability to reach an emotionally satisfying conclusion does not make their prayer less worthy of being heard.

The psalm also reminds us that lament is relational. Even when the writer struggles to perceive God’s presence, the suffering is still addressed to Him. The act of prayer continues within the experience of uncertainty.

There is something deeply meaningful about that persistence. Faith may sometimes express itself not through confidence in an explanation, but through the decision to remain in conversation with God when understanding is incomplete.

For those involved in ministry and counseling, this should encourage greater patience with spiritual struggle. A grieving person’s questions do not automatically indicate rebellion, and expressions of anger or disappointment should not be hastily interpreted as spiritual failure. The most faithful response we can offer is to listen carefully enough to understand what the person is actually trying to communicate.

When the Written Word Becomes a Place of Reflection

The connection between lament and journaling becomes clearer when we consider what happens as we attempt to put difficult experiences into words. Grief can leave our thoughts feeling scattered, with memories, emotions, fears, and questions competing for attention. Writing provides an opportunity to pause long enough to notice some of these experiences and consider what they mean.

In counseling, reflective writing can be one way of supporting emotional awareness and meaning-making. For some people, placing thoughts on paper makes it easier to recognize feelings they have struggled to identify. Others discover that writing helps them to distinguish what they know from what they fear, or what they wish had happened from what can no longer be changed.

These possibilities are valuable, but we should be careful not to present journaling as a guaranteed path toward healing. Not everyone finds writing helpful, and for some individuals, especially when painful memories become overwhelming, unstructured writing may intensify distress rather than relieve it. The usefulness of journaling depends upon the person, the circumstances, and the way the practice is approached.

Within Christian spiritual formation, however, journaling can offer something beyond ordinary self-reflection. When our writing becomes an honest conversation with God, it can take on the character of personal lament.

We may begin by acknowledging a loss we have found difficult to discuss. We might write about a conversation we wish we could have had, a relationship we miss, or an experience that has left us questioning our understanding of life. Rather than immediately searching for a spiritual lesson, we can allow ourselves to describe what the experience has actually been like.

This is where the lament psalms become particularly helpful. They demonstrate that prayer can include questions, memories, requests, and unresolved emotions without requiring us to disguise the tension between them.

Someone reflecting upon Psalm 13 might begin by considering what has made the present season feel unusually long or difficult. A person drawn to Psalm 42 may recognize the pain of remembering a life that once felt more secure. Another reading Psalm 88 might find reassurance simply in discovering that Scripture contains a prayer that does not end with emotional resolution.

The purpose is not to imitate the psalmists’ language mechanically but to recognize that their honesty gives us permission to speak in our own voices, and often those voices emerge more freely on paper than they do in conversation.

Writing a Personal Lament Without Forcing a Conclusion

If we wish to explore journaling through the biblical tradition of lament, we can begin with a psalm that reflects something of our present experience. Rather than immediately trying to apply the passage, it may be helpful to read it slowly and notice which words or emotions feel familiar.

Consider Psalm 13. Its opening questions reveal a person struggling with the experience of waiting and apparent abandonment. Someone grieving might recognize a similar sense of uncertainty and begin writing about what waiting has meant in their own life. Maybe they are waiting for relief from emotional pain, for the return of some sense of purpose, or for the ability to remember someone they love without becoming overwhelmed.

The writing might then move toward the particular circumstances surrounding that experience. What has changed? What feels unfinished? What do I wish I could say to the person who is gone? What questions have I been reluctant to bring before God?

These are not questions that must be answered in a single sitting. Their value lies in helping us notice what is happening within us rather than requiring us to produce an immediate solution.

For some, remembering previous experiences of God’s faithfulness may emerge naturally. Others may find that gratitude and sorrow coexist, or that their writing moves between confidence and doubt. Still others may discover that they cannot honestly express hope at that moment.

The lament tradition makes room for these differences. Psalm 13 demonstrates that trust may emerge within distress, while Psalm 88 reminds us that unresolved suffering also has a place within the biblical witness.

This is particularly important because spiritual practices can become burdensome when we turn them into expectations. If every journal entry must end with gratitude, every prayer with reassurance, and every difficult experience with a lesson, we may unintentionally teach ourselves to conceal the very emotions that need acknowledgment.

I would rather encourage a person to write honestly than to produce a conclusion they do not genuinely believe. A journal can remain unfinished. A prayer can consist of a question. A page may contain little more than an acknowledgment that today has been difficult.

There is no spiritual advantage in pretending to feel something we do not feel.

At the same time, honest expression need not become endless immersion in distress. It is helpful to write for a manageable period, pause, and return to an activity that provides grounding or connection. If journaling consistently leaves someone feeling overwhelmed, a trusted counselor or other qualified professional may help them find a safer approach. The purpose is to support thoughtful engagement with grief, not to require repeated exposure to painful memories without adequate support.

What matters most is that the practice remains responsive to the person’s needs rather than becoming another obligation imposed upon their suffering.

Lament, Christ, and the God Who Listens

As Christians, our understanding of lament is deepened by the life and suffering of Jesus Christ. The Gospels do not present Him as emotionally detached from the pain of human existence. At the tomb of Lazarus, Jesus wept, even within a narrative that would soon reveal His power over death. His tears remind us that divine compassion does not dismiss the reality of human sorrow.

We also encounter Christ’s anguish in Gethsemane, where He openly expressed the weight of what lay before Him. His prayer did not conceal His distress, yet it remained directed toward the Father. In that moment, honest suffering and faithful surrender were not presented as mutually exclusive.

At the cross, Jesus cried out using the opening words of Psalm 22: “My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?” (Matthew 27:46). The significance of this moment reaches beyond the fact that Jesus experienced profound suffering. He entered the language of biblical lament, expressing His anguish through words already familiar within Israel’s worship.

This matters because it challenges any understanding of Christian spirituality that equates faithfulness with emotional invulnerability. Christ’s suffering was neither superficial nor hidden behind an appearance of composure. The One who came to reveal the Father’s character also entered the depths of human anguish.

We should therefore be cautious about suggesting that grief becomes spiritually acceptable only when it is expressed calmly or accompanied by immediate reassurance. The biblical witness gives us a more honest picture of faithful living, one in which sorrow can be acknowledged without surrendering the possibility of trust.

The resurrection gives Christian lament a horizon of hope, but that hope does not require us to deny the present reality of loss. The promise that death will not have the final word does not make the absence of someone we love insignificant. Rather, it allows us to grieve within a larger story of redemption while remaining truthful about the pain we presently carry.

In this sense, lament and hope are not enemies. Lament names what is wounded in a world that is not yet fully restored, while Christian hope looks toward the restoration God has promised through Christ; both belong within the life of faith.

Making Room for the Stories Grief Has Left Unspoken

When I consider the pastoral value of journaling, I am reminded that grieving people often carry stories they have not found a safe place to tell. Some involve cherished memories. Others contain regret, anger, guilt, disappointment, or questions that feel too complicated for ordinary conversation.

Writing may provide an opportunity to explore these experiences privately before deciding whether to share them with someone else. A person might write a letter to someone who has died, describe a meaningful memory, or reflect upon the ways a relationship continues to influence their identity. Another may find it helpful to write about the support they need but have struggled to request.

Such practices do not erase grief, nor do they necessarily produce immediate emotional relief. Their potential value lies in making space for experiences that deserve attention.

For those accompanying grieving people, this also carries an important lesson. We do not need to correct every difficult emotion, resolve every theological question, or redirect every expression of sorrow toward reassurance. Sometimes the most compassionate response is to listen without rushing to interpret what we hear.

The lament psalms demonstrate that sorrow can be expressed in the presence of God without being reduced to a problem that must be quickly solved. Journaling can extend that practice into everyday life, offering a place where grief, memory, faith, and uncertainty may be explored with honesty; yet the written page should not become a substitute for every form of human connection.

There are times when grief needs the presence of another person, the support of a community, or the guidance of a qualified professional. The invitation to write is most meaningful when it respects these wider needs and recognizes that healing is rarely sustained by a single practice.

Ultimately, what I value most about the relationship between lament and journaling is the dignity it gives to the grieving person’s voice. It reminds us that our sorrow does not have to be polished before it can be acknowledged, and our prayers do not have to sound confident before they can be sincere.

Perhaps there is something you have been carrying that has never found its way into words. It may be a question you have hesitated to ask, a memory that continues to trouble you, or a sorrow you have learned to keep hidden because others seem uncomfortable with its presence.

You do not have to begin by explaining everything. You might begin by reading a lament psalm and allowing one phrase to accompany your thoughts. You might write a few sentences about what today has felt like, or offer God a question for which you have no answer.

There is no requirement that the page end in certainty. There is no need to transform every expression of grief into an inspirational conclusion.

The hope offered through Christ is not dependent upon our ability to produce hopeful words on demand. It rests in the character and promises of the One to whom those words, however uncertain, are addressed, and that is one of the most meaningful gifts of biblical lament: it teaches us that we can remain in conversation with God even when our grief has left us without answers.

Questions for Reflection

When you think about your own experiences of grief or disappointment, are there emotions or questions you have found difficult to express because you feared they might be misunderstood?

Which of the lament psalms: Psalm 13, Psalm 42, or Psalm 88 most closely reflects something of your present experience, and what might its language help you acknowledge?

If you were to write a private prayer today without feeling obligated to end on a hopeful note, what would you want God to hear?

When someone shares their sorrow with you, are you able to remain present with their uncertainty, or do you sometimes feel compelled to offer an explanation before they have finished speaking?

Prayer

Loving Father, You know the sorrow we carry and the questions we struggle to express. When grief leaves us uncertain, help us approach You with honesty rather than fear. Give us courage to acknowledge what hurts, patience with what remains unresolved, and wisdom to seek the companionship and support we need. Teach us to listen compassionately to those who suffer, remembering that Your love does not depend upon our ability to explain our pain. May the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ deepen our trust in Your restoring grace, even as we wait for the fullness of Your promises. In Jesus’ name, Amen.

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Blessings,
Ze Selassie M.A.C.C., B.A. Chapl., Dip. Min.
Chaplain (Christian Leaders Alliance)
PhD Candidate – Practical Theology
Ordained Minister • Christian Counselor

L.I.V.E. — Love Infinite, Vigorously Exercised
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