We live in a world that loves resolution.
From childhood fairytales to Hollywood films, we’re taught to expect closure.
Conflict builds, tears fall, but by the final act — things make sense.
The pain is redeemed. The hero overcomes. The broken is made whole.
But what if your story doesn’t look like that?
What if you’re stuck in the middle of the sentence —
No closure.
No clarity.
Just questions… and a silence you’re not sure how to name.
What if the ending hasn’t come — and might not come in the way you hoped?
The Psalm with No Resolve
Psalm 88 is often called the darkest chapter in the Bible.
Unlike other Psalms of lament that end with praise, this one doesn’t.
There is no light breaking through the clouds.
No hopeful turn.
It ends not with triumph, but with this haunting line:
“You have taken from me friend and neighbor—darkness is my closest friend.”
— Psalm 88:18
For many, that verse feels more like real life than most Sunday sermons.
It’s the kind of rawness that makes you pause.
Because here is a man who believes in God enough to cry out,
but who is honest enough to say: I feel abandoned.
And somehow — it made it into Scripture.
Not as a mistake.
Not as an embarrassing outburst.
But as a model of worship.
The Holy Work of Unfinished Prayers
We’ve been conditioned to spiritualize our pain, to find quick theological answers, to wrap hard stories in soft language.
But Psalm 88 teaches us something deeper:
You don’t need to end with a bow for your pain to be valid.
You don’t need resolution to bring your soul to God.
God doesn’t just receive your hallelujahs —
He receives your sobs, your silence, your anger, your ache.
“I am overwhelmed with troubles and my life draws near to death.”
— Psalm 88:3
That’s not a faithless prayer.
That’s a faith-filled cry from someone who still believes God is listening — even when He feels absent.
When the Bow Is the Burden
For many of us, trying to “find the good” in suffering has become a second grief.
We’re told:
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“God has a reason.”
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“This will make you stronger.”
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“Everything happens for a purpose.”
But not every ache comes with a revelation.
Not every loss turns into a lesson.
Not every broken thing gets fixed this side of heaven.
Trying to force meaning where there is none yet can be exhausting.
And sometimes cruel.
Psalm 88 frees us from that pressure.
It reminds us that lament — even when unfinished — is still sacred.
It reminds us that being faithful does not mean being okay.
God Meets You in the Dark
If Psalm 88 had been edited like a movie, someone would’ve added a final line:
“But God came through and all was well!”
But that would rob us of something beautiful.
Because what Psalm 88 does give us is a portrait of a God who allows us to stay in the dark without turning us away.
You are not disqualified by your sadness.
You are not less spiritual for still waiting on your “happy ending.”
You are not forgotten because your prayers sound more like pleading than praise.
“But I cry to you for help, Lord; in the morning my prayer comes before you.”
— Psalm 88:13
Even in his despair, the psalmist keeps talking to God.
Even in his darkness, he refuses to let go of the conversation.
That, too, is faith.
When All You Can Do Is Bring It
Here is what Psalm 88 teaches us in the most powerful, gentle way:
God doesn’t ask you to be fixed.
He only asks you to be real.
When you're alone — bring that.
When you're desperate — bring that.
When you're angry — bring that.
When you have no words, just tears — bring those too.
God is not allergic to your sorrow.
He isn’t threatened by your emptiness.
He is not turned off by your confusion.
The only offering required in your darkest moments is honesty.
“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”
— Psalm 34:18
That’s not just poetry. That’s promise.
Let It Be Unfinished
So what if your story doesn’t resolve the way others expect it to?
What if healing takes years — or a lifetime?
What if the grief never fully goes away?
You are still beloved.
Still carried.
Still heard.
The absence of a “bow” does not mean the absence of God.
He is in the middle.
In the unraveling.
In the lament that ends without answers.
Let your story be unfinished.
And let that be holy.
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