The Good Shepherd Who Hears My Lament
I hid in my bedroom, sweat beading on the back of my neck and my stomach gnarled into nauseous knots. My panic attack rose from two to ten in a matter of seconds, and I clenched my fists so tight I broke skin. My breath came out jagged, sharp, and rapid. Once the panic attack peaked, it slowly brought itself down, and I curled up on my bed to weep.
As a family, we were going through a period of dark suffering. We had gone from the darkest valleys, then edged towards the green pastures and quiet waters, but took a sudden turn back into the same valley we were in before. My life felt like a nightmare; at night, my mind dreamt of prancing in the green fields again by the calm, sparkling stream—but I awoke each morning to find myself still amid the darkest valley with no light streaming in from either end.
Our Good Shepherd leads through both the even, green plains and the dark, rocky gorges. He never grows more distant on either terrain but leads us with his outstretched arm and protects us with his staff. As he leads us, his ear is bent low to listen to both our gratitude and our lament, and he never grows weary of hearing either—even if others do.
Pure Lament
Prior to this suffering, I went into preterm labor at thirty weeks with my twins. Because my local hospital wasn’t equipped to care for premature babies, I was air-lifted to a hospital three-hours from my home. Though they stopped the labor, both hospitals wanted me to stay at the larger hospital until I reached full term (in case labor started again). My husband and I took up residence in a tiny hotel room—three hours away from our two-year-old son—for six weeks during a local COVID outbreak.
The psalms of lament became the language of my prayers during those six weeks. Before the COVID outbreak shut down churches, my husband and I attended a church service where we sang the Psalms, and I was relieved to not have to sing only praise music. Yet, at the same time, I felt guilty for this disposition. I should only be grateful, not sorrowful. Perhaps this was a blessing in disguise—a God-given vacation, as some believers suggested to me. Lament didn’t feel productive.
As Christians, we’ve forgotten that joy amid lament isn’t the same as corny gratitude that puts a positive spin on every hardship. We’ve forgotten that Psalm 88 exists in the church’s songbook—a song without a “gratitude list” attached to it. In this song, the Psalmist laments his suffering and honestly tells God about the grief, fear, and emotions he’s experiencing. And unlike many modern worship songs, the Psalmist doesn’t tie a pretty bow on his prayer.
Rather than admonishing or calling the Psalmist to wipe his tears and find a truth that’s praiseworthy, God records the lament for his people to sing. As your good Shepherd, Jesus walks alongside you to listen tenderly to your grief as well. He holds his staff at the ready not to whack you for being too sad, but to defend you against the wolves of despair and hopelessness that bare their teeth to devour your faith (John 10:11–18).
As believers, if we’re uncomfortable with someone else’s (or even our own) lament, we need to spend more time in the Psalms and Job. Lament isn’t an emotion we need to push one another past, but a time to come alongside as our Shepherd does to each of us.
After my intense panic attack that I recounted in the beginning, I walked out to the kitchen where my friend Toni was sweeping the floor. I wanted to hold myself together, but when her eyes met mine, I burst into tears. She didn’t condemn me. She enveloped me in her arms and held me. She didn’t tell me to wash my face and get to work, but said she and her daughter would take care of my children so I could do what I needed to heal. In that moment, God began a work in my heart to show me how he deals with us in our suffering—a work that no book or seminar could have ever taught me.
The Good Shepherd, Not Good Suffering
The psalms that are intertwined with both grief and praise aren’t an example of the writers putting a positive spin on their situation or imagining that their suffering is good. Rather they are trusting their faithful Shepherd who led them through the green pastures and the dark valleys. The Psalmists reminded themselves of God’s grace and providence in the past to guard themselves against hopelessness, but they don’t pretend that their suffering is good or positive.
Writing on Philippians 4:6–7, Kelly Kapic writes,
Don’t listen to people who tell you to look at terrible events and pain and call them “good.” That is not what Paul is saying. The good, the confidence, the rejoicing is not about the circumstances, but about God’s faithfulness and presence, which is most clearly seen in the life, death, and resurrection of Christ. Jesus the Messiah is the reason we can be grateful no matter the circumstances. (Kapic, You’re Only Human, 210)
The good we cling to in our suffering and the good we can rejoice in during our suffering isn’t the pain, trauma, hurt, or chaos we face. It’s God himself, our Good Shepherd, who is with us in the darkest valley. Even when we trip from the stony path or have no idea which way is forward because the darkness is so thick, his arm grasps us and will never let go. In my despair and panic, God carried me through. The pain remained, our suffering didn’t change, but God held me, and his compassion never faltered.
A Life of Gratitude and Lament
I don’t like tension; I much prefer to place life into tidy categories. But I’m learning that in suffering—and in life in general—I don’t need to choose between joy and sadness, grief and gratitude. I can have both. As Kelly Kapic writes,
Despite pressures from both outside and within the church, lament and thanksgiving are not in a contest. The Bible calls us to both. Don’t pick between Psalm 22 and Psalm 23: believers are allowed to cry out, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” in their distress, and at the same time confidently declare, “The Lord is my Shepherd.” These expressions are not tied to good and bad times, but to the one God, who is present in both. (You’re Only Human, 206)
In the midst of your panic, your suffocating depression, your family crisis, your trauma, and your greatest suffering, your Good Shepherd will never abandon you. Jesus will not get fed up with the amount of time you spend lamenting. He is gentle and he knows your suffering—both as your omniscient God and sympathetic High Priest who came to earth and died in your place. He doesn’t call this valley good, and he doesn’t expect you to do so either. He welcomes you to lament how sin has distorted this world while trusting that he is faithful to lead you through.
Lara d’Entremont is a wife and mom to three from Nova Scotia, Canada. Lara is a writer and learner at heart—always trying to find time to scribble down some words or read a book. Her desire in writing is to help women develop solid theology they can put into practice—in the mundane, the rugged terrain, and joyful moments. You can find more of her writing at laradentremont.com.