That song carries more than melody. It holds memory, grief, survival, and faith that had to be fought for. It comes from people who learned how to keep singing when silence would have been easier. When life presses hard and the weight feels personal, that’s not the moment to perform strength. That’s the moment to be honest. To admit the weakness. To let praise rise not because everything is okay, but because God is still present.
There’s something deeply dismissive about telling people to just get over what has wounded them. Trauma changes how you see the world, how you trust, how you hope. Pain doesn’t disappear on command. God never asked His people to pretend they weren’t hurting. He asked them to call on Him from the middle of it. And He listens. He leans in. He is gracious and righteous and merciful, even when sorrow feels louder than joy.
Sometimes praise isn’t loud or polished. Sometimes it’s a sacrifice, offered through clenched teeth and tired hearts. And somehow, that kind of praise opens doors grief tried to shut. We keep singing not because we’ve forgotten the trouble, but because we know who hears us.
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