06/16/2026
For those who mourn:
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THE MINISTRY OF TEARS.
Five weeks in… and the waves still come.
Just weeks before my son Evan stepped into eternity, I began preaching on the ministry of tears. I had no idea how personal the Holy Spirit was about to make that message. I still don’t fully understand it all—but I’m learning.
Tears are not a sign that your faith is failing. They are evidence that your love was real. They are the language of a heart that refuses to numb the pain or pretend the loss didn’t cut this deep. David cried. Jeremiah cried. Jesus Himself wept. And Scripture never shames the weeping saint—it honors the tears. You have kept count of my tossings; put my tears in your bottle. Are they not in your book? (Psalm 56:8) Your Father is not distant from your sorrow. He collects every drop. He sees the midnight waves that hit when the house is quiet. He hears the sobs you swallow in the truck, in the study, or while scrolling old photos on your phone. He is near to the brokenhearted (Psalm 34:18).
I’ve cried more in the last month than I have in years combined. It comes in waves—sometimes gentle, sometimes crushing. One moment I’m declaring resurrection hope; the next I’m on my knees asking, “How do I keep breathing?” And both are worship.
Here’s what the Lord is teaching me in the storm:
1. Tears release what words cannot carry. They are a God-given pressure valve for the soul. Don’t fight them—let them flow as an offering.
2. Tears connect us to the suffering of others. My grief has opened doors to hear from thousands of you who have buried children, spouses, parents, or dreams. We are not alone in this. The body of Christ was meant to weep together (Romans 12:15).
3. Tears prepare the ground for resurrection power. Mary and Martha’s tears preceded Lazarus walking out of the tomb. Jesus didn’t rebuke their weeping—He entered it with them… and then He spoke life. Your tears are not the end of the story.
4. Tears remind us this world is not our home. The pain is loud because the separation is unnatural. But one day: “He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away.” (Revelation 21:4)
Until that Day, we grieve with hope (1 Thessalonians 4:13). Not hopeless despair. Not fake “I’m fine.” Honest, tear-soaked hope anchored in the empty tomb.
If you’re in the waves right now—whether fresh loss or pain that never fully left—hear this from a father who is still in it with you:
It is okay that you’re not “over it.” You don’t get over the loss of your child, your loved one, or the life you thought you’d have. You get through it, one tear, one breath, one declaration at a time, held by the Man of Sorrows who is acquainted with grief (Isaiah 53:3).
I’m not preaching at you from the other side. I’m preaching with you from the middle of it. The same Jesus who wept is the same Jesus who rose. And because He lives, Evan lives. Because He lives, your loved one lives. Because He lives, we can face tomorrow—even when today hurts more than words can say.
So cry. Lament. Pour it out. Then rise and declare: “It is well with my soul.” Not because the pain is gone, but because the Savior who carries both the pain and me is greater.
If you need to talk, reach out. The ministry of tears is also the ministry of presence. We weep together, we hope together, and we wait for the morning that never ends.
With tears and trust,
Pastor Greg Locke
