God Collects Your Tears

Some moments in life break us in ways we didn’t see coming. There are tears that fall quietly, and then there are tears that crash to the ground like thunder—loud, unfiltered, and raw. I’ve experienced both. And in all of it, God was near. Not distant. Not indifferent. He was close enough to catch every single tear.

Psalm 56:8 says, “You keep track of all my sorrows. You have collected all my tears in your bottle. You have recorded each one in your book.”

That verse stops me in my tracks. Think about that. The Creator of the universe keeps track of our sorrows—not just notices, but keeps record. He collects our tears and holds them, and He writes them down, one by one, as if none of them are too small or insignificant to matter. It reveals something so tender about the heart of God. He doesn’t just care about our victories or our faith-filled declarations. He cares about our grief. Our sighs. Our brokenness. And He doesn’t brush them aside. He actually gathers them. God is not only aware of our sorrow, but He is also intimately attentive to it. He doesn’t rush us past the pain or expect us to fake joy. He gently leans in and says, “I see you. That mattered to you, so it matters to Me.”

Last year, I went through a long season where I cried all the time. I don’t say that dramatically. I mean, I genuinely cried almost every single day. Some days, it was a steady stream, and I couldn’t stop. Other days, it came in waves. I was in the thick of depression. I felt emotionally drained and spiritually dry. It was caused by a plethora of things—unresolved pain stemming back to childhood, personal struggles, etc. Everything felt like it was unraveling at the same time, and the weight of it all left me feeling stuck and worn down. It was heavy and unrelenting, and even though I knew the Lord, even though I was seeking Him, there was a weight I couldn’t seem to shake. I felt like I was moving through life underwater—disconnected from everything around me. I would try to pray, and most of the time, all I could do was cry. I was showing up for my responsibilities, smiling when I needed to, leading in church, but deep down, I was barely holding it together.

And the tears came without asking for permission. In worship. In silence. Driving in my car. At church. In H-E-B. It didn’t matter where I was, I just felt like I was always crying. For a while, I felt embarrassed by how emotional I was. I thought maybe I was doing something wrong or that I wasn’t being strong enough. But the Lord, in His kindness, began to show me that my tears weren’t a sign of failure. My tears were an offering. A release. A surrender. They were the physical expression of a heart trying to cling to hope, even when everything felt dark.

Healing came slowly, like a seed planted in the ground that needed time to take root. I often expected instant transformation, but the truth was, there were days when I felt just as heavy as before. What carried me through was staying in the Word and keeping a heart posture of worship. Even when I didn’t always have the words to pray, the Scriptures were enough. They became my daily bread, feeding my soul when I felt spiritually starved. Psalm 56:8 became a lifeline. If He was collecting my tears, then that meant He was there for all of them—not just the prayers I could articulate or the days I felt better. He was there for the unraveling. For the grieving. I leaned into passages that whispered God's care, like “Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest” (Matthew 11:28), reminding me that rest was a promise, not just a wish. The lies that told me I wasn’t enough were quieted by the truth that God sees me, just as I am, in every broken moment. I spoke Scripture out loud over myself, declaring God’s promises and a sound mind even when my emotions didn’t line up. I worshipped God through the heaviness and chose to keep my heart turned toward Him, even when it was painful to do so. Worship is not about feelings—it is about surrender. I knew that if I could keep a posture of worship before Him, even with tears streaming down my face, I was still declaring with my life that He was worthy.

Community was also vital. I opened up to my closest friends, and they came alongside me to pray, encourage, and remind me that I wasn’t walking alone. Their love and intercession became evidence of God’s nearness, a reminder that He places us in the family of believers so we don’t have to walk through valleys alone. Community gave me strength when my own strength was gone, and it reminded me that isolation is never where healing thrives. God’s design has always been for His people to walk together, carrying one another’s burdens and speaking truth when lies feel louder than hope.

There was also great power in praying in the Spirit over myself and my mind. Romans 8:26–27 says that the Spirit helps us in our weakness and intercedes for us with groans too deep for words, and Ephesians 6:18 calls us to pray in the Spirit on all occasions with all kinds of prayers and requests. When I didn’t know how to pray or what words to speak, I leaned into this truth and allowed the Spirit to intercede through me. Those prayers became a shield over my mind when fear and heaviness tried to take hold, and they brought peace that my own strength could never produce. Praying in the Spirit realigned my heart when I felt scattered or weak, reminding me that even when I had no clarity, God Himself was praying perfectly through me according to His will. Covering my mind and spirit in prayer became a weapon and an anchor that kept me close to Him.

There is a lie in the body of Christ that I want to tackle with you guys that has become very passionate to me. There is this unspoken assumption in parts of the Church that if you’re truly walking with God, you won’t feel anxious, depressed, or low. That if you’re struggling mentally or emotionally, your faith is not strong enough, or you are less spiritual. But that’s not how it works. Faith doesn’t erase pain—it invites God into it.

The truth is, even the strongest believers in Scripture experienced deep sorrow. Elijah asked God to take his life after doing great miracles (1 Kings 19:4). David wept until he had no strength left (Psalm 6:6). And Jesus Himself was “a man of sorrows, acquainted with grief” (Isaiah 53:3). Their tears didn’t disqualify their faith, but they revealed their humanity.

If you’re battling depression, please know this: you are not faithless. You are not broken beyond repair. You are not disappointing God. You are not weak for feeling weary, and you are not less spiritual for struggling to find joy. Those are lies from the enemy meant to make you doubt your standing with God. Your battle does not change your belonging. Your weakness doesn’t disqualify your faith—it draws God’s compassion.

There’s such a stigma in Christian spaces around mental and emotional pain, and sometimes it makes people feel like they have to hide their tears to appear “strong.” But healing began when I realized that vulnerability doesn’t discredit faith because it actually deepens it. God wasn’t asking me to pretend I was okay; He was inviting me to bring my brokenness into the light.

Depression doesn’t mean the absence of faith. It means you’re human in a fallen world, leaning on a perfect God. I’ve learned that God doesn’t shame us for our pain. He sits in it with us. He doesn’t look at our tears as weakness. He sees them as worship. Because every tear cried in His presence becomes a declaration: I still believe You’re good, even here.

As I write this post, I find myself getting emotional, reflecting on where I was then and where I am now. The contrast is overwhelming in the best way. I’m living in the most beautiful and joy-filled season of my entire life. A season marked by peace, purpose, love, and laughter that comes from a healed heart. It’s not that life is perfect or that hard days no longer exist, but the heaviness that once felt constant has lifted. God truly turned my mourning into dancing, just like He promised in Psalm 30:11.

If there’s anything I want this post to communicate, it’s that there is hope. Real, tangible, redeeming hope. The same God who collected my tears is the One who now fills my days with joy I never thought I’d feel again. Healing can take time, but it’s worth every moment when you realize the One who held you through the pain is the same One writing your redemption story.

If you're in a hard season right now—a season where your emotions are tender, where you're tired of crying, where you're wondering if this ache will ever lift, please take heart. Your tears are not unnoticed. They are not meaningless. They are seen by the One who holds them with care.

Let your tears fall if they need to. He’s not asking you to stop crying. He’s not waiting for you to get it all together. He’s with you now. Bottle in hand. Heart wide open. Recording every moment, collecting every tear, and holding every part of your story with compassion.

He sees you. He remembers. And He’s still writing redemption into every page of your story.