Set aside this time as a sacred pause. Find a quiet space where you can breathe deeply, settle your body, and give your full attention to what is unfolding within and around you. You may want to silence notifications, light a candle, hold a journal nearby, or simply sit with your feet grounded on the floor. There is no need to rush. This guide is not something to complete as quickly as possible, but an invitation to listen — to God, to yourself, and to the realities that often go unnamed in the busyness of life. Move slowly through each section. Read the scripture more than once. Sit with the questions. Let silence do some of the work.

Lament is not faithlessness.
It is faith that refuses to disengage.

To lament is to remain in relationship with God even when life feels unbearable. It is the language of those who refuse to numb themselves, turn away, or pretend that pain is not real. In a world that often urges us to move on quickly, stay positive, or keep performing strength, lament offers another way. It makes room for honesty. It tells the truth about suffering without surrendering the possibility that God is still present.

Hard times require naming what hurts. Not minimizing it. Not spiritualizing it away. Not rushing to a lesson too soon. Just naming it.

That kind of truth-telling is not weakness. It is courage. It is the beginning of healing.

Listen to this episode of the Be Well Podcast, “Healing Historical Trauma,” which explores how historical harms — slavery, colonization, displacement, and injustice — continue shaping communities and calls us into the theological work of truth-telling and repair.

As you listen, consider how personal pain and collective history intertwine.

As you watch the following clip, pay attention not only to the words being spoken, but to what resonates in your own life. What emotions rise up? What experiences feel familiar? What part of the student’s reflection invites you to be more honest about your own story?

God of the suffering and the seen,
meet me in what is true.
Where I have hidden pain, bring gentleness.
Where I have silenced grief, bring courage.
Where wounds have been ignored, denied, or inherited,
bring your steady presence.
Teach me that naming what hurts is not the end of hope,
but the beginning of healing.
Amen.

Let today be about witnessing, not solving.

You do not need to have answers by the end of this reflection. You do not need to tie your pain into a neat spiritual lesson. The invitation is simply to tell the truth — before God, before yourself, and perhaps before a trusted community.

Healing often begins in the quiet, holy moment when we stop pretending and finally say: This hurts.
And even here, God is present.

Return to Main Formation Week 2026 page.