Out of the Depths (Psalm 130)
Most mornings, before the house wakes up, I slip into my chair in the den. Feet on the ottoman. Portable heater running, even if it’s already warm outside. Laptop in my lap. Bible nearby.
That’s where most of these posts begin.
Throughout the day, I jot things down. Thoughts that come during conversations. Scripture that lingers. Quiet convictions that stay with me longer than expected. Sometimes it’s a quick note on my phone. Other times it’s scribbled in a notebook I keep nearby. In the evenings, I start to shape those scattered thoughts into something more. Usually while Rachel and I are unwinding and watching TV.
Then the next morning, I return to them in the quiet.
Honestly, most of the time, I’m not writing to anyone in particular. I’m writing to myself. I’m trying to process what I’m carrying, what I feel the Lord might be speaking, and what I need to remember before I say anything to someone else. It just so happens that I share it. And I hope somewhere along the way, it helps someone else too.
Yesterday’s post felt that way. It came from a place of ache more than clarity. I wasn’t sure how it would be received. But as the responses started coming in through comments, messages, and quiet acknowledgments, it became clear that many of you are carrying something too. That same heaviness. That grief that doesn’t always have a name.
This morning, as I sat with my notes and coffee, Psalm 130 came to mind. Not because I had been studying it, but because I needed it.
Out of the depths I cry to you, Lord. Lord, hear my voice. Let your ears be attentive to my cry for mercy.(Psalm 130:1–2)
This psalm doesn’t open with clarity or celebration. It starts low. In the depths. With a plea, not a plan. That’s where a lot of us find ourselves these days.
What I love about this passage is that it gives us permission to be honest. To come to God as we are. No clean-up required. Just real prayers from real places.
The psalm then takes a turn. The writer recognizes what we all know to be true. We don’t always get it right.
If you, Lord, kept a record of sins, who could stand? But with you there is forgiveness, so that we can, with reverence, serve you. (verses 3–4)
God isn’t waiting for us to perform. He isn’t cataloging our mistakes so he can throw them back at us. He forgives. Freely. Fully. And when we experience that kind of grace, it shifts our posture. It softens our hearts and draws us back to him with reverence, not fear.
Then the psalm moves into the waiting.
I wait for the Lord, my whole being waits, and in his word I put my hope. I wait for the Lord more than watchmen wait for the morning. (verses 5–6)
This isn’t passive waiting. It’s not giving up. It’s watchful. Hopeful. Like a night watchman who doesn’t know when the first light will come but knows that it will. He stays ready. That’s the kind of faith that holds on in the dark, trusting that the light is still on the way.
And the final lines?
Israel, put your hope in the Lord, for with the Lord is unfailing love and with him is full redemption. (verses 7–8)
This isn’t just personal encouragement. It’s a community invitation. There is enough mercy for all of us. Enough grace. Enough redemption. The psalmist doesn’t keep it to himself. He turns outward. And I think that’s part of what I’ve been learning too. What God gives in the quiet isn’t always meant to stay there. Sometimes it’s meant to be shared.
A Prayer for Today
God,
You see the depths we carry. You hear the cries we barely know how to say.
You are not surprised by our silence or overwhelmed by our sorrow.
You draw near to those who wait, and you speak peace to those who trust.
Forgive us for the moments we’ve tried to clean ourselves up before coming to you.
Remind us that you meet us where we are, not where we pretend to be.
Give us the courage to wait with hope.
The humility to receive mercy.
And the compassion to extend grace to others as freely as we’ve received it.
Even in the waiting, you are near.
Even in the depths, you are good.
And even now, you are at work.
Amen.
