Permission to Mourn

God of the brokenhearted, who keeps count of every tear,

I bring you the grief I keep being told to be over. It is not over. Love does not evaporate on schedule, and neither does sorrow. I do not ask you to explain this loss — explanations are for later, or for never. I ask you to sit with me in it, the way the old psalm-singers demanded your company in the pit rather than pretending they were not in one. Let my tears be prayers when words run out. Let my anger be heard without being corrected. Hold what I cannot hold: the one who…

I am not alone in the pit. Even here, especially here, I am accompanied. Amen.