He is in the Sunrise
“For his anger lasts only a moment, but his favor lasts a lifetime; weeping may stay for the night, but rejoicing comes in the morning.” — Psalm 30:5 (NIV)
Have you ever truly walked through lament?
Lament is more than feeling sad. It is the honest and sometimes uncomfortable practice of bringing our pain directly to God. We turn toward Him, share our struggles, conflicts, and brokenness, ask Him for healing or relief, and then slowly learn to trust His timing.
People often say, “This too shall pass,” when life becomes difficult. But lament does not ask us to rush past the pain or pretend that everything is fine. It gives you permission to sit with God in the middle of the storm to tell Him the truth about what hurts, while trusting that He is still at work.
Most of us experience shame, sorrow, or emotional uncertainty at some point in our lives. We are human, and we live imperfectly. Sometimes we say or do things that do not glorify God, and sometimes we are wounded by others' imperfect choices. Instead of speaking openly about my pain and fear, with God or with those who had hurt me, I chose a different path. I put on the protector's superhero costume.
I made it my responsibility to shield others from being hurt. I stepped in when harm was being done and intervened when others could not, or would not. I learned to anticipate people’s needs before they were ever spoken. I absorbed stress that was not mine to carry and worked tirelessly to keep people, families, and situations running smoothly.
Becoming the protector felt necessary. It was a role established early in my life and reinforced by broken relationships that did not seek God first. Loyalty and family were deeply important to me, but somewhere along the way, I began believing that loving people meant carrying everything for them. Being the protector felt safer than being vulnerable. It felt safer than fully surrendering my life, and the lives of the people I loved, to my Heavenly Father.
For a long time, I believed this was the only way to survive. Then I opened the door and began building a deeper relationship with God. Slowly, I began taking off the protector’s uniform. I realized that I do not have to protect everyone and control everything around me. God created me in His image, and He has entrusted me with caring for the life and body He gave me.
I gave it all to God—my true Protector.
I am still learning what it means to surrender. Sometimes I am tempted to pick up that superhero costume again and convince myself that everyone needs me to save the day. But then I remember: God is powerful enough to care for all. He does not need me to take His place.
My role is not to be everyone’s protector. My role is to be His daughter. Learning to lament has given me a new understanding of healing and a new way to rejoice. I can weep and still trust Him. I can grieve and still recognize His goodness. I can experience pain and still rejoice, not because the pain is gone, but because I know God is present within it.
My mother always loved sunrises. I love them too.
With every sunrise, I imagine God gently saying, “Rejoice. This is a new day.” The sunrise does not erase what happened during the night. It does not tell us that our grief is over or that our wounds should already be healed. It simply reminds us that darkness does not last forever.
God meets us in our lament, and over time He helps us see that sorrow and joy can coexist. We may still carry grief into the morning, but we do not carry it alone.
Each sunrise is an invitation to release what was never ours to control, receive the new day as a gift, and trust the One who has been watching over us through the night.
Questions to Ponder
What have you been carrying without God?
What would it look like to give Him that burden today?
Where can you see a small sign of morning light in your current season?
Prayer for Today
Heavenly Father, thank You for meeting me in both my weeping and my rejoicing. Help me release the burdens I was never meant to carry. Teach me to trust You as my Protector and to rest in my identity as Your child. When the night feels long, remind me that You are still present and that morning will come. Help me receive each sunrise as a reminder of Your faithfulness, mercy, and love. Amen.
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