We are all marked by iniquity and sorrow. We love stories about people who go through hardship and come out the other side stronger, wiser, and okay in the end. But the truth is, sorrow changes us.
Painful childhood memories. Divorce. Never having a grandchild. Losing people we love. These things mark us. Maybe the wisest thing we can say is, I will never be the same. Most of us pretend we are fine because we don’t know what else to do.
And then we keep going. We run our errands, take care of kids, go to work, watch movies, laugh — all while carrying the quiet knowledge that we are not okay.
Every time a new year begins, the expected cheer shows up in resolutions, fresh starts, and goals. But this season also carries memories and grief over who is no longer here and who we used to be.
Paul knew the ache of this life—the tension between wanting to go home to the Lord and staying here. Jonah wished he had never been born. Elijah asked God to take his life.
Jesus himself was a “man of sorrows” (Isaiah 53:3). He who was one with the Father asked for the cup to be removed while still praying, “Your will be done” (Matthew 26:42). If he knew that struggle, how much more do we — full of sin, grief, and pain — know the same plea?
We are wrong to say this life doesn’t undo us. We often stay busy and distract ourselves because stillness brings memories. It shows up late at night. At a red light, when everything goes quiet. In a smell that pulls you backward. In the way Advent feels different from year to year.
We cannot step fully into each other’s stories, but we all share suffering on this side of the veil. Sometimes two people connect deeply because pain recognizes pain.
What if, when someone asked how we were doing, we said, “I’m not okay. This time is hard. But I will be okay.” How many people would respond, “Me too”?
In “The Four Loves,” C. S. Lewis said friendship begins with, “What! You too?” The closest people in my life are the ones who have responded to my admission of pain with, “I understand. I’ve felt that.”
This life chips away at us. Maybe slowly, maybe quietly. Maybe in ways we don’t notice until later. We’re quick to say, “The Lord is good,” without asking if we will allow ourselves to say, “He is good — and I am not okay.”
Are we willing to say both?
Trusting God does not erase the painful memories. We trust him, love him, and believe he works all things for good. But pretending we are untouched by pain is not faith; it’s denial.
Sometimes we have to cry, to voice our pain out loud. To God. To someone safe. We are human, and therefore, we have emotions.
May we be people who lament. Because when we don’t, we try to control what we can’t fix. We try to be our own saviors.
But when we kneel — when we stop pretending and tell the truth — something loosens. When we confide in a friend, even haltingly, hope finds a small opening. When we speak our sorrow instead of hiding it, it is no longer something we have to manage alone. It is placed into hands that are not ours.
We are not healed by pretending, nor sustained by cheer. We are sustained by truth — by a Savior who knows sorrow and by people willing to sit in it with us. This new year does not ask us to be fine. It asks us to come as we are. Marked. Tired. Hopeful and hurting all at once.
Haley Isbell is a member of Redeemer Presbyterian Church in McKinney, Texas and works for Reformed Theological Seminary Dallas.