Weep With Those Who Weep

I’m not usually someone who watches the news. But this week, I’ve felt drawn again and again to the updates on the flooding in Texas. I can only take it in microdoses before my heart becomes overwhelmed. Eventually, it gets so heavy, so awful, I have to turn it off—turn away. And I’m heartbroken for those who are in the middle of it and don’t have the same luxury.

I’m heart-sick for those who’ve experienced such devastating loss. I’ve wept. I’ve prayed. I’ve wrestled with grief and empathy. I don’t know how any of us could watch what’s unfolding and not feel shaken. The raw, unfiltered pain touches something deep within us—those vulnerable places we try to protect.

And I’ve grieved for them for other reasons, too.

Most of us struggle privately. A cancer diagnosis. The loss of a loved one. The pain of infertility or miscarriage. These soul-deep wounds are often carried behind closed doors, shared only with those we trust. But for some, like those affected by this disaster, their most personal and devastating moments are laid bare before the world—broadcast across news outlets and media platforms. Tragedy becomes a headline. Grief becomes content. And I can’t help but ache for what else has been taken from them: the dignity of quiet mourning. The right to enter the sacred work of grief on their own terms.

I think about the impact this will have on their souls. What will be said to them in these tender early days? How many well-meaning words will unintentionally wound? Grief in its early stages is raw, sacred, and fragile. It’s the place where our humanity collides with sorrow and questions, and the tension between our pain and our faith feels unbearably sharp.

Will they run to the throne of grace, searching for help in their time of need? Or will bitterness and heartbreak push them away from the only true source of comfort? Will they turn away?

I’ve stood at that threshold. The longer we walk with God, the more likely we are to reach that crossroads—when grief tests everything we believe.

It’s hard. Life is hard. Life on this earth is hard.

Romans 12:15 tells us, “Rejoice with those who rejoice, and weep with those who weep.” 

So, as the body of Christ, we weep. Through our tears, we pray. And when we don’t know where to start, we start with truth.

This is where I’ve started: I’ve prayed the promises of God’s Word over them.

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

“He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.” —Psalm 147:3

I close my eyes and picture it—each family, lowered gently in a basket of prayer before the only One who can comfort and heal them.

I pray they’ll crawl up into the lap of their Heavenly Father and simply be held—as they cry, as they grieve, as they begin to sort through what lies ahead.

And I pray for those walking beside them—that they would walk with wisdom. That they would sit close, listen deeply, and choose their words with care. That they would be slow to speak and quick to listen (James 1:19).

And still, I’ve found myself thinking about the quieter tragedies—the ones that don’t make the news. The people who have suffered their own losses this week, unseen and unacknowledged. Pain that is no less significant. Devastation that’s no less devastating, even if it’s not shared across every screen. These are the ones who may not receive an outpouring of love or community support. They will walk through their grief more quietly, and maybe more alone.

But here’s what I’ve come to know:

We all have our journey of through.

Through pain. Through loss. Through grief.

The starting point may differ, the details may vary, but the truth remains—the only way to heal is to go through.

So my prayer—for them, for you, for me—is this:

That we would have the courage to keep walking. That we would emerge on the other side—changed, yes, but still standing. That we would move forward, even as we carry the scars. That we would continue to serve, to trust, and to allow ourselves to be loved by the only constant we truly have in this world: the unshakable love of God.

As long as we wake up to the sun on this earth, His mercy is still meeting us there.