“Blessed are those who mourn”

From Jesus’s Sermon on the Mount…

Mourning is not a sign of weakness but a “pathway to God’s blessing”

Jesus said, “Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted.” Those words in Matthew 5:4 used to confuse me. Mourning does not feel blessed. Loss does not feel holy. Yet Jesus speaks as One who knows sorrow, as Isaiah foretold, a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief. He calls mourners blessed, not because pain is good, but because God meets us in it. The blessing is not the mourning. The blessing is the comfort.

When we grieve over sin, loss, or the brokenness of the world, God promises His comfort, healing, restoration, and joy. In Christ, no sorrow is wasted, and every tear is precious in God’s sight. As Psalm 34:18 reminds us, “The LORD is nigh unto them that are of a broken heart; and saveth such as be of a contrite spirit.” I hold to that promise, because there have been moments when brokenhearted was the only word that fit, and the nearness of God was the only thing that kept me standing.

There is a kind of mourning that changes you. It is not loud. It is not always seen. Sometimes it settles deep in the soul, where only God can reach. I have learned that this kind of grief strips away self‑reliance and leaves you with nothing but need. And in that place of need, Psalm 51:17 becomes more than a verse, “The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit: a broken and a contrite heart, O God, thou wilt not despise.” When all I could bring Him was a shattered heart, He did not turn away.

There are griefs that come from the weight of our own sin. Regret can ache in ways few people talk about. The memories of words spoken, chances missed, choices made can haunt the quiet hours. But God does not waste even that sorrow. “For godly sorrow worketh repentance to salvation not to be repented of,” we are told in 2 Corinthians 7:10. I have known that kind of sorrow, the kind that breaks pride and leads you back to the cross, where forgiveness is not theory, but life. Like David, I have felt the heaviness lift when confession meets mercy, “I acknowledged my sin unto thee… and thou forgavest the iniquity of my sin.”

There is also the grief that comes when life takes something you can never replace. Names, faces, voices that still echo in the heart. Seasons that ended too soon. Prayers that did not receive the answer we begged for. In those moments, faith is not a sermon. It is a whisper. Psalm 147:3 says, “He healeth the broken in heart, and bindeth up their wounds.” Sometimes that healing does not come quickly. Sometimes it comes as strength to breathe through another day, or peace that settles in the middle of unanswered questions. But I have learned that God does bind wounds, even when scars remain.

The comfort God gives is not distant or cold. It is tender. “As one whom his mother comforteth, so will I comfort you,” He says in Isaiah 66:13. I have felt that kind of comfort, when words fail and yet peace settles anyway. When the heart still aches, yet it is held. When you finally see that you are not carrying this weight on your own, but leaning entirely on His presence. When I fell to my knees, broken and trembling, and begged His forgiveness for my lack of trust, for the anger I had carried because of the pain, and for failing to recognize that it was His strength, not mine, that had carried me through the loss of my child.

There were nights when sleep would not come, when sorrow felt heavier in the dark. That is when Psalm 30:5 became personal, “Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.” Not always the next morning. Sometimes a much later one. But God does not leave His children in endless night. Joy does come, not as forgetfulness, but as quiet assurance that grief is not the end of our story.

Paul calls Him “the Father of mercies, and the God of all comfort; Who comforteth us in all our tribulation.” There were seasons when I did not know how to comfort anyone else, because I could barely stand myself. And yet God met me there. Over time, I saw how the comfort He gave began to shape compassion in me for others who hurt. Sorrow, in His hands, became a bridge to understand pain I once could not.

Sometimes grief comes from simply looking at the world and seeing how broken it is. Injustice. Cruelty. Confusion. Hearts far from God. It can feel overwhelming. But Lamentations reminds us, “Though he cause grief, yet will he have compassion according to the multitude of his mercies.” I now realize that mourning over the world’s brokenness keeps us from becoming numb. It keeps our hearts aligned with His.

There have been times when all I could do was walk through the valley, not around it. Psalm 23:4 says, “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me.” I wish I could say I never feared. But I can say this, I know I was not alone. His presence did not erase the valley, but it kept the valley from swallowing me.

What has sustained me is the growing certainty that no tear is unseen. God does not measure grief by how dramatic it looks to others. He knows the private ache, the prayers that never make it past a whisper, the days when faith is simply choosing not to let go. “Casting all your care upon him; for he careth for you.” That verse in 1 Peter 5:7 is not gentle poetry to me. It is survival truth.

And then there is this promise that still feels too good to be true, “To give unto them beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness.” I have not seen all of that yet. But I have seen glimpses. I have seen ashes become something that speaks of grace instead of ruin. I have seen heaviness give way, little by little, to “praise” that is quieter, deeper, and more real than anything I knew before sorrow came.

Jesus said mourners are blessed because they shall be comforted. I believe Him now in a way I never could before grief touched my life. Comfort is not always immediate. It is not always loud. But it is faithful. God keeps His word. “Thou hast turned for me my mourning into dancing,” Psalm 30:11 says. I am still learning how to dance through life’s seasons of sorrow, and for now, that dance often takes the form of finding gratitude even in the midst of tears.

So I write this not as one who has mastered sorrow, but as one who has been met by God in it. The Lord truly is nigh unto the brokenhearted. I have found Him there. And if you are mourning today, in any way, I want you to know this. Your grief is not invisible. Your tears are not wasted. Your heart, however broken, is not despised.

Blessed are they that mourn. Not because mourning is easy. But because God Himself draws near, and His comfort is stronger than our deepest pain.