When the sadness doesn’t make sense
David knew this feeling. I can almost picture him pacing the palace, wrestling with the same restlessness, wondering why it all feels wrong when nothing has gone wrong.
Some days, melancholy settles in like an unwelcome guest who doesn’t even bother to knock. You don’t remember inviting it. It doesn’t come with a reason or warning. It just shows up, draping itself over your shoulders like an old, heavy coat you’d forgotten in the back of the closet. You know, the kind that smells faintly of mothballs and memories you’d rather not revisit.
I want to think I’ve matured enough to recognize these days for what they are—the peculiar burden of living in a world that’s not quite right. But when the sadness creeps in, slow and uninvited, it doesn’t always feel like theologically rich suffering. It feels like staring at the ceiling at 2:00 a.m., wide awake for no particular reason, or sitting in the car in the driveway long after you’ve pulled in because you can’t quite muster the energy to open the door and go inside. It’s quiet. It’s small. But it’s there.
David knew this feeling. “Why are you cast down, O my soul, and why are you in turmoil within me?” (Ps 42:5). I can almost picture him pacing the palace or maybe just a cave, wrestling with the same restlessness, looking up at the same dark sky and wondering why it all feels so wrong when nothing has gone wrong. The man after God’s own heart wasn’t immune to it, and neither are we.
The lack of an obvious trigger makes this kind of sadness maddening. I can handle the tears that come from real grief. At least they have a purpose. I know how to pray through the funeral sermon and point others, and occasionally myself, to the comfort of the resurrection. But this? This unnameable, unshakeable weight? It’s not the dramatic mourning of sackcloth and ashes. It’s more like a slow leak you didn’t notice until the basement was full of water.
During these days, everything takes on a strange sort of symbolic weight. The coffee doesn’t taste right, the rain feels personal, and the headlines are too much to bear. I find myself looking at everyday objects with the suspicion that they’re conspiring against me, like my alarm clock, that smug little tyrant, ticking away without mercy, or the dishes piled in the sink—each one a silent accusation, saying, “You’re not keeping up.”
Maybe that’s what it is—the relentless whisper of inadequacy. If nothing else, it’s a reminder that, like Paul, we groan inwardly as we wait eagerly for adoption as sons, the redemption of our bodies (Ro 8:23). We’re caught between the already and the not yet, the promise and the fulfillment. Some days, that in-between feels like a chasm I’ll never cross, no matter how many Bible verses I try to hurl at it.
I used to think the fix was to pray it away, like some holy pest control. But I’m slowly, stubbornly learning that these melancholy moments aren’t just nuisances to be eradicated. They’re signposts. They remind me that I’m not home yet, that this world, with all its half-finished to-do lists and occasional pangs of despair, is not where my hope ultimately lies. “For here we have no lasting city, but we seek the city that is to come” (Heb 13:14).
Sometimes, the most faithful thing you can do on a day like that is to keep going—to drag your weary self to the Word, even if you’re reading with one eye open and a heart that feels numb and whisper, “I believe; help my unbelief!” into the silence and trust that it’s enough (Mk 9:24).
I think about Paul’s thorn in the flesh, that unnamed affliction that dogged him despite his prayers for relief. “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness,” the Lord said (2Co 12:9). I want to say that promise feels like a warm blanket on a cold night. But it can often feel like duct tape on a leaky roof, holding things together just enough but still leaving me wet and wondering when the storm will pass.
Maybe that’s the point. God doesn’t promise to remove every cloud of sadness. He promises to be with us in the midst of it. “Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me” (Ps 23:4). It’s the “with me” part that I have to hold on to even when the valley is shrouded in fog, and I can’t see more than a step ahead.
So, I sit with it. I let the sadness be what it is. I’m longing for something I can’t grasp just yet. I let it drive me back to the gospel, to the hope that one day, every tear will be wiped away, and every inexplicable sadness will be swallowed up in joy. Until then, I pace the room, pray through clenched teeth, and press on, trusting that God’s grace is still enough even on the heaviest days.
Recommend reading
Christians Get Depressed Too by David Murray
Murray combines biblical teaching with insights from the medical field, offering hope and practical advice for those struggling with sadness and melancholy.
The Hidden Smile of God by John Piper
Piper examines the lives of three Christian giants who struggled with deep sadness and mental anguish.