There is something deeply human and deeply biblical about lament. The Psalms have taught me that faith is not made up only of praise and singing, but also of sighing, longing, questioning, and bringing our sorrows honestly before God. They do not ask us to tidy ourselves up before we come. They do not pretend that life is always bright and easy. They make room for the whole of being human.

When I was very young, perhaps in my early twenties, I read a book that changed my life. Its message was about telling ourselves the truth. That stayed with me, and in many ways it shaped my life. Ever since then, it has felt important to me not to minimise what is hard, but not to dramatise it either. Just to tell the truth as honestly as I can, and to find that balance somewhere in the middle.

I think that is one of the reasons lament matters so much. Sometimes when someone is sharing about the difficulties in their life, people can be too quick to offer a silver lining before they have really heard them out. But often that does not make a person feel seen or comforted. Sometimes it only helps the listener feel less uncomfortable. There is a time for encouragement, of course, but there is also a time to simply listen, to let sorrow be spoken, and to let truth have its full weight.

That is one of the reasons I love the way the Bible includes lament. Lament does not exaggerate pain, but neither does it deny it. It looks suffering in the face and speaks truthfully. It says, this hurts. This is heavy. This is a hard season. This is not easy. And yet even there, it keeps turning toward God. To me, that feels both wise and comforting.

I do not want to pull anyone down with my sorrows, but neither do I want to live as though nothing is happening. Laughing has its place. Happiness has its place. Singing has its place. But so does lamenting. We are human. We all go through difficulties. We all walk through weary seasons. We all know what it is to carry burdens that do not always have easy words.

What I love about the Psalms is that they make room for all of it. Not all Psalms are laments. Some are full of praise. Some are full of wonder. Some rise with gratitude and joy. Others sound like tears being poured out in the night. And somehow they all belong. That feels so true to life. There are seasons for rejoicing, and there are seasons for lament, and both have a place in a life of faith.

Perhaps that is one of the reasons I love starting the day by reading a Psalm. It does good for the soul. The Psalms meet me where I am. They remind me that faith is not one long unbroken song of triumph. It is praise and pain, gratitude and groaning, trust and trembling, sometimes all within the one heart. They remind me too that God is not frightened by our honesty. He welcomes truth.

Lament is not a lack of faith. In many ways, it is a form of faith. It is what happens when we bring our real selves before God instead of a polished version. It is the quiet courage of telling the truth. And I think there is something beautiful in that. Something freeing. Something deeply healing.

The Psalms show us that sorrow does not have to be hidden in order for hope to remain alive. It can be spoken. It can be prayed. It can be wept. And still, somehow, it can be carried toward the light. That is one of the gifts of lament. It helps us live truthfully before God. And I think that kind of truthfulness does good for the soul.