Lament

There’s a word I’ve come to know more deeply over the years—lament.

It’s a word we rarely use. It’s not the same as complaining. It’s not whining or despair. Lament is sacred space. It’s the act of telling the truth about pain and still, somehow, lifting it toward heaven.

It’s the courage to say, “This is not what I hoped for,” and to let that sadness breathe without rushing to fix it.

It’s not just sadness. It’s a sacred kind of grieving. A place where we can be honest about our pain. The quiet, raw language of the heart that says, “This is hard,” without trying to tidy it up.

“Pour out your heart like water in the presence of the Lord.”

Lamentations 2:19

Lately, I’ve been in a season of lament. I have sat in the dark, waiting for Oscar to sleep and let the sadness wash over me without trying to outrun it. I tell God, “This hurts.” I stop pretending I’m fine. Because lament is holy. It’s honest and it’s the beginning of healing.

I lament because Oscar is now nine and I’ve found that grief has resurfaced—familiar, yet unexpected.

I ache for the ease I thought time would bring. I grieve the milestones that haven’t come, or came differently. I feel the weight of new challenges that have emerged, ones I now need to learn how to navigate.

Oscar is wonderfully unique—deeply loved and full of life and personality. He makes us laugh. He teaches us patience, compassion, and strength.

But the truth is, life is also exhausting in ways that are hard to explain. It wears on your soul in places words don’t always reach.

We’re nine years in.

Nine years of therapies, assessments, and advocacy.

Nine years of supporting, co-regulating—getting out the door, through the door, through the day. Over and over.

And sometimes I find myself wondering – Will it ever get easier? Will I ever stop grieving?

And actually, I don’t think grief ever fully goes away.

It changes shape. It hides for a while, then shows up again—like it is now. It’s not just about the diagnosis. It’s about the dreams I silently let go of. The challenges in life we have.

Oscar is not a tragedy. He is precious, and irreplaceable. But the road we walk together is at times hard. And it’s okay to grieve that.

It’s okay to lament.

This Lent, I’ve given myself permission to feel it all again. To not rush to be okay. To say, “This is heavy,” without shame. To not sugarcoat the season I’m in. To sit in the quiet ache, and let it be what it is.

Lament is not the opposite of faith—it’s an expression of it. It’s trust deep enough to be honest. It is an act of fierce, authentic faith.

I can lament, and still have hope.

Lament isn’t the end of the story. It doesn’t erase hope—it makes room for it. And sorrow doesn’t get the last word.

We find tucked into the Book of Lamentations, no less, this jewel of hope:

“Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail. They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness.”

Lamentations 3:22–23

Resurrection awaits.