Five years ago this week, I lost my mom.

There are losses that rearrange your life, and then there are losses that rearrange you. Losing her did both. She was my safe base, the place I ran to, the voice that steadied me, the presence that made the world feel less threatening. When she died, it felt like something foundational was ripped out from under me. I didn’t just grieve her absence. I grieved the version of myself who existed when she was still here.

For a long time, grief was overwhelming and untamed. I couldn’t look at pictures of her for years. Not because I didn’t love her, but because I loved her so deeply that the pain felt unbearable. She was so beautiful, inside and out, and the reminder of that beauty hurt too much.

And if I’m being honest, grief wasn’t the only thing I felt.

I was angry.

Angry that she was gone. Angry at the timing. Angry at the ache that settled into everyday moments. Angry that life moved on when mine felt like it had stopped. Sometimes I was even angry with God.

And here’s something we don’t say enough in Christian spaces: God can handle that too.

The Bible is not afraid of anger. The Psalms are filled with it.

“Why, O Lord, do you stand far away? Why do you hide yourself in times of trouble?” (Psalm 10:1)

That is not a sanitized prayer. It is raw. It is confrontational. And it is still Scripture.

Lament is not a lack of faith. To lament is to bring our grief, our confusion, our anger, and our questions directly into the presence of God instead of pretending they don’t exist. Lamenting is holy because it refuses to suffer at a distance from Him.

Even Jesus did this.

Jesus wept at the tomb of Lazarus, even knowing resurrection was coming. He did not rush grief. He entered it. And on the cross, He cried out the words of Psalm 22: “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”

If Jesus lamented, then our tears and even our anger, are not signs of weak faith.

What’s important for me to say is this: hope didn’t show up years later, once the pain softened. Hope was braided in from the very beginning.

I stood at my mom’s funeral declaring my hope in Jesus. Not because I wasn’t devastated—but because my faith told me that death does not get the final word. Even in the shock and ache and disbelief, I believed that what is true in Christ is still true in grief.

That didn’t make the loss easier. It made it bearable.

Christian hope doesn’t erase sorrow. It sits inside it.

For a long time, grief dominated everything. Over time, slowly, it began to change shape. I can look at pictures now. I can smile and ache at the same time. I can celebrate the gift my mom was to me from God while still missing her deeply.

I am still sad. But my sadness is now intertwined with hope.

“The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit.” (Psalm 34:18)

What I never expected was that the deepest seasons of lament would become the places where I learned the most about God.

There were moments when I truly didn’t feel like I could go on.

I poured out my heart and soul in deep grief, sitting in the shower with the bathroom door locked so no one else could hear me. I struggled just to take my next breath. Grief was not abstract—it was physical, suffocating, and relentless.

And it was there, right there, that He drew near.

Not with explanations. Not with urgency. But with His presence. He held me when I felt undone and gave me the strength to take the next breath, then the next step, then the next day.

That is what lament does. It places us in the presence of a God who does not stand at a distance from suffering.

“You have kept count of my tossings; put my tears in your bottle. Are they not in your book?” (Psalm 56:8)

Lament is not about finding the right words, it is about being seen and known in our pain.

In grief, I encountered His patience when my healing was slow. His nearness when I felt crushed. His gentleness when my prayers were nothing more than tears. His faithfulness when I had nothing left to offer.

This may sound strange, but the kingdom of God often does.

Losing my mom was, in many ways, a blessing.

Not because loss is good. Not because death is gentle. But because lament opened a door into intimacy with God that I might never have known otherwise. Grief stripped away my illusion of control and left me dependent, and dependency became a place of deep communion.

Scripture tells us that we grieve, but not as those without hope. That does not mean we grieve less. It means we grieve with Jesus.

“My tears have been my food day and night…” (Psalm 42:3)

Tears and joy are not opposites in the life of a believer. They often live side by side.

If you are grieving today, whether the loss of a parent, a loved one, a relationship, a dream, or a season, please hear this…

You are allowed to be devastated. You are allowed to be angry. You are allowed to take your time.

God is not threatened by your honesty. He does not ask you to clean up your grief before coming to Him.

“Pour out your heart before Him; God is a refuge for us.” (Psalm 62:8)

One day, God will wipe away every tear. Until then, He meets us in them.

Lament is holy.

And somehow- mysteriously, faithfully- grief and hope can live in the same heart.

Ardently His,

Jen

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