I want to talk for a minute about something we don’t usually talk about, either at home or in church—lament.
Most of us weren’t taught what to do with pain except to push through it. Pray harder. Keep smiling. Don’t slow down. But there are moments in life—especially when you’re facing a serious disease—when everything stops. The words dry up. The plans you had don’t seem to fit anymore.
I used to think lament was a sign that something had gone wrong. I’ve learned it’s often a sign that something honest is happening. Lament is what comes out when you don’t have polished prayers left—just a heart reaching toward God saying, “This hurts, and I don’t know what to do with it.”
One of the hardest parts of receiving a serious medical diagnosis isn’t just the physical reality—it’s what it does to your momentum. Most of us live with a sense of forward motion. We have plans, routines, goals, timelines. We measure life by what’s next. And when a serious disease enters the picture, it feels like that momentum gets derailed. Like everything you were building toward suddenly comes to a screeching halt.
Through lament, I’ve learned something unexpected. My momentum wasn’t derailed or destroyed. It was redirected.
It felt like a derailment at first, but what really happened was a divine interruption. My Creator stopped me—not to punish me, not to sideline me—but to reposition me. He redirected my momentum away from my plans and toward His plan. And that redirection brought me to a place I hadn’t been before: complete surrender.
Surrender is not a word we like. It sounds like loss. But I’ve learned surrender is where clarity begins. It’s where I finally loosened my grip on what I thought my life was supposed to look like and placed it in God’s hands. Lament was the doorway that led me there.
And here’s what surprised me—God wasn’t offended by that honesty. He didn’t step back. He drew closer to me.
When you’re walking through something serious, hope can feel buried. Pain fills the whole room. Your body is tired. Your mind won’t slow down. Even promises you’ve believed for years can feel far away. But lament is never wasted. God works in places we can’t see, and sometimes the deepest pressure is where the most important shaping happens.
We’re really good at hiding how we feel. We say we’re fine when we’re not. We keep moving because stopping feels dangerous, or you don’t want to share how you’re really feeling with those closest to you because you feel they depend on you. But Scripture shows us people who cried out to God—confused, frustrated, and broken—and God met them every time. When we stop pretending, something opens up between us and God.
One of the moments that means the most to me is when Jesus stands at the tomb of Lazarus. Jesus knew how the story would end. He had the power to fix everything instantly. But He didn’t rush past the pain. He stopped. He wept. He entered into the grief of the people He loved.
That tells me God doesn’t rush past our pain either. And He doesn’t rush past our surrender.
So if you’re facing a serious disease, or if life has come to a sudden stop, hear this: your tears don’t mean you lack faith. Sometimes they mean you trust God enough to tell Him the truth. Lament isn’t weakness. It’s honesty. And honesty is often the first step toward healing.
I don’t have all the answers. But I do know this—God is present. He’s not waiting on the other side of your pain. He’s with you in it. And even when it feels like your momentum has been lost, God may be doing something far better.
He may be redirecting it.
And through lament, surrender, and trust, hope begins to rise—not because everything is fixed, but because you realize your life is still firmly in the hands of a good and loving God.