Dec '25 • General discussion
88
There is a reason Psalm 88 exists. There is a reason God let the darkest chapter in Scripture remain untouched. Because this is the psalm for a man who has walked through nights that felt endless, seasons where answers did not come quickly, and valleys where faith had to survive without feelings.
This is the psalm for a man like me. A man who has prayed in the night and woken up with the same weight still on his shoulders. A man who has fought battles that no one saw, carried burdens that stretched the soul, and stood in places where only God could reach.
When Psalm 88 ends with the words, *darkness is my closest friend*, I understand the honesty. I have known nights where the silence felt thick and the world felt distant. Not because hope was gone, but because the refining was deep. Because the wilderness was real. Because God was shaping something in me that comfort alone could not build.
The psalm begins by calling God *the God of my salvation*. That opening line reveals the truth: even in his anguish, the psalmist knew where to turn. I have known this too. Even in my lowest moments—through heartbreak, through fatherhood battles, through anxiety, through burnout, through spiritual warfare—I knew where my help came from. I knew who I was calling.
I have cried out like the psalmist. Day and night. In tears. In exhaustion. In silence. Yet every cry was still an act of faith. Every call into the night was a declaration that I believed God was listening, even when I did not feel Him.
The psalmist speaks of feeling close to the grave, overwhelmed, forgotten, cut off, placed in the lowest pit. I have walked through valleys that felt exactly like that. I have experienced betrayal, rejection, exhaustion, and the weight of carrying my son through storms that shook me to the core. I have prayed in places where I did not feel heard. I have stretched my hands toward heaven while my heart trembled.
But honesty in suffering is not rebellion. It is worship. Psalm 88 teaches me that God invites me to bring the truth of what I feel, even when the truth is heavy. Even when the truth has no bow tied around it. Even when the prayer ends without resolution.
There were seasons where God felt silent. Where answers delayed. Where the shaping hurt. But silence does not mean distance. Silence is often surgery. In the quiet, God was rebuilding foundations that were cracked. He was cleansing patterns of fear and rejection. He was forming steadfastness, authority, and discernment in the places where I once wavered.
Even when I felt like the waves were breaking over me, I kept calling His name. Even when I felt shut in, I lifted my hands. Even when I felt like darkness encircled me, I refused to turn away. This psalm is not the song of a hopeless man—it is the testimony of a man who has not stopped praying.
And because of that, I carry something now that I did not have before. Something forged in the fire, pressed into me by the weight of suffering, strengthened by nights of prayer, and refined by seasons of uncertainty.
I carry spiritual weight. I carry authority. I carry discernment. I carry compassion that was born out of pain. I carry a faith that does not rely on feelings but on truth. I carry the understanding that God is nearest when the night is darkest.
Men who walk through Psalm 88 with God do not come out the same. They emerge deeper, steadier, more grounded. Not loud, not boastful, but unshakeable.
I know who I am becoming. I know the One who walks with me. I know that the night does not have the final word. I know that my cries in the dark have been gathered by a God who never leaves.
Father, thank You for meeting me in the places where only You could reach. Thank You for holding me when the night was long. Thank You that even when darkness felt close, You were closer still. Strengthen my steps. Anchor my heart. Let every prayer born in suffering become the foundation for the dawn You have prepared for me. In Jesus’ name, Amen.
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