The morning of February 10, 2022, was like most mornings in Las Vegas: hot and windy. What seemed like a normal Wednesday for my wife Brooke and I would become a day we’d never forget.
It started as we hopped in the car for a quick 15-minute drive to our OB-GYN. Brooke was ten weeks along with our first baby and we had a routine check up scheduled.
When we arrived at the clinic, we checked in and sat down in the waiting room. Every emotion possible was running through my mind. Everything from, “I cannot wait to see Brooke be a mom” to every doubt I felt about being a dad. I could barely remember what Brooke asked me to pick up at the grocery store; How was I supposed to be ready to take care of a helpless yet perfect baby? I remember how bright it was. How quiet it felt. We waited and waited … and eventually, Brooke’s name was called.
The nurse led us down the hallway into a small room. The lights were low. Just the three of us: me, Brooke, and the doctor.
The doctor was kind, asked a few routine questions, and then did an ultrasound.
We held hands tight. Waiting for the fluttering sound of a tiny heartbeat. Waiting for a glimpse of our soon-to-be firstborn child. All the fears and doubts I had minutes earlier in the waiting room seemed to vanish as I thought of hearing our beautiful baby.
But instead, the only thing we heard was the doctor’s voice as she compassionately but confidently said: “I’m so sorry, Brooke. I’m not finding a heartbeat.”
Those are words no one is ever prepared to hear. There’s no script. No warning. No way to process what’s just happened.
The next few moments are blurry in my memory. But I remember wrapping my arms around Brooke. I remember holding her as tightly as I could. And whispering through tears, “I love you, everything is going to be okay,” as we sat there and cried together.
The following days, weeks, and months were … not easy, to say the least. And to be honest, the years since haven’t been either. About two years to the day later, in February of 2024, we experienced this same pain of losing a baby all over again.
During this two-year span, my core love for and belief in God didn’t go away. But my ability to sincerely give thanks and praise? That changed.
It’s hard to lift your head and heart in worship when the one thing you’ve prayed for more than anything isn’t coming. It’s hard to feel joy for others when they have what you so deeply long for.
And I know that for many of you listening, today is hard too. Maybe for the same reason. Maybe for a different one. But the ache is real. Some feelings and trials require more than a “rub some dirt on it and keep moving forward” perspective.
I found myself stuck in a spiritual place I had never experienced before. I was hurt, confused, and exhausted. I was still praying. Still showing up. But it felt like my heart was walled off. Like my faith and my feelings couldn’t coexist. In essence, I felt defeated and alone.
Until one day, I learned about a form of worship in the scriptures that changed everything.
It’s not the kind of worship we usually sing about in sacrament meeting or talk about in Sunday school. It’s not the type of worship we post about on social media for the world to see. It’s a deeper form of worship, one that causes us to strip away every wall that is holding us back and completely give our entire soul to Christ.
It’s called lamenting. Lamenting is to express deep sorrow and grief to God, often through prayer and honest emotional expression, with the ultimate goal of finding hope and trust in Him.
Today, I want to talk about what it means to lament, how we see it used throughout the scriptures, and how you and I can grow closer to the Savior through our own lamenting.
When life hurts, worship doesn’t always look like praise or thanksgiving. Lamenting is a sacred, scriptural way to stay connected to God, even when your soul feels too raw or exhausted to be grateful. It’s not murmuring or complaining about Him to others, but rather expressing deep sorrow and grief directly to Him from a wounded, yet trusting, heart.
A heart that says: “God, I believe You’re there … so where are You?” Or: “This pain… it’s more than I can handle, I cannot take much more. I need You.”
Lamenting doesn’t deny faith; it embodies it. It’s what faith looks like when you’re still reaching toward God through your tears.
My own journey of lamenting through the loss of our babies was messy. For some reason before these trials I had never really understood that I could bring my complaints and frustrations to God. Its like I was saying one thing to Him, but feeling another deep inside. Once I realized that lamenting was not only allowed, but sacred, I started to see examples of it all over the scriptures.
These weren’t just people surviving hard things. They were worshiping through their pain sometimes with questions, sometimes with heartache, but always with trust and faith. Let me show you what I mean.
In Doctrine and Covenants 121, the Prophet Joseph Smith is wrongfully imprisoned in Liberty Jail with awful, inhumane conditions. Meanwhile, the early members of the Church were being heavily persecuted and treated just as unfairly.
After months in the cold and darkness, the prophet of God finally cries out: “O God, where art thou? And where is the pavilion that covereth thy hiding place? How long shall thy hand be stayed?” [1]
This isn’t praise or thanksgiving. It’s a prophet choosing to direct his pain and grief toward God rather than away from Him. That’s lamenting.
Just verses later we read God’s response: “My son, peace be unto thy soul; thine adversity and thine afflictions shall be but a small moment.” [2]
Indeed, God was listening and with Joseph the whole time.
Let’s look at another example in the Book of Mormon. In 2 Nephi 4, after the death of his father, Nephi reflects on his struggles, weaknesses, and sins. His words spill out with grief and self-reproach: “O wretched man that I am! Yea, my heart sorroweth because of my flesh; my soul grieveth because of mine iniquities. [3]… And when I desire to rejoice, my heart groaneth because of my sins.” [4]
Nephi believed in God with all his heart, yet in this moment, he felt weighed down and unworthy. Instead of hiding those feelings, he poured them out to the Lord. And then, almost mid-prayer, we see something miraculous. Nephi’s words begin to turn toward hope.
“Nevertheless, I know in whom I have trusted. [5] … My God hath been my support; He hath led me through mine afflictions in the wilderness.” [6]
That’s lamenting. Bringing both sorrow and trust to God in the same breath. My final example of lamenting found in the scriptures is from the Savior himself. During the final week of the Savior’s life, we find two instances in which he lamented to the Father. The first of these being in the Garden of Gethsemane as he took upon himself the sins of the world.
In Matthew Chapter 26, we read: “And he went a little further, and fell on his face, and prayed, saying, O my Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me: nevertheless not as I will, but as thou wilt.” [7]
In Matthew 27, as Jesus hangs on the cross, suffering more than we can ever imagine, cries out: “My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?” [8]
This isn’t a polished prayer, quiet hymn, or a happy testimony. It’s a raw, gut-level cry of lament during the Savior’s final moments. But it isn’t a lack of faith. It’s the deepest expression of it: choosing to stay in relationship with God, even when He feels far away. If the perfect Son of God could lament, so can we.
But here’s the problem: Satan doesn’t want us to believe this. He wants us to think God doesn’t care, or that He wouldn’t understand what we’re feeling. He whispers that God only wants to see the “good” side of us; that when we’re struggling, we should hide it. He wants us to feel isolated. He wants us to believe that in our pain, we’re unworthy to even speak to God. But none of that is true.
The Savior Himself showed us what true lament looks like, holding nothing back, pouring out every sorrow and question, and pleading with the Father in complete honesty.
He showed us that our pain doesn’t disqualify us from God’s presence, rather it’s an invitation to come closer. So don’t wait until you “feel spiritual” to pray. Don’t clean yourself up first before coming to Him. Lamenting is for the middle of the mess, not after it’s over.
Maybe hearing these scriptural examples helped you see that lamenting is not just some ancient practice. It’s real, it’s valid, and it’s needed today. Even here at BYU-Idaho.
Because here’s the truth: college can be a wilderness all of its own. It’s late nights, looming deadlines, social pressures, and questions about the future. It’s homesickness, heartbreak, anxiety, and sometimes just trying to figure out who you are and where you belong. And in these moments, Satan’s lies can feel even louder. He’ll tell you that you’re the only one who feels this way. That if you were really strong in the gospel, you wouldn’t be struggling. That if you were really over your personal Goliath, then you wouldn’t be talking to your bishop again about the same things. That you should just “fake it” until the storm passes in fear that others or even God may look at you differently because of decisions you have made.
But God invites you to something better. He invites you to be honest with Him and with yourself. To bring the late-night tears, the unanswered questions, the frustration, and the fears right into His presence. That’s lamenting as a college student.
It might sound something like this:
“Lord, I studied for hours and still failed the test. Am I on the right degree path?”
“Father, I feel invisible here. I’ve been in Rexburg for months and still don’t feel like I belong.”
“God, I want to do what’s right, but I’m so tired of constantly feeling judged and alone.”
“Heavenly Father, I’m doing everything I can so why does the future still feel so unclear?”
These aren’t polished prayers.
They’re the raw, emotional, walk-across-campus-in-the-snow kinds of prayers. And they matter to God just as much as any form of praise or thanks that you may give him. Because every time you bring your pain to Him, you’re proving that the relationship matters more than the resolution. And in His perfect time, He will answer. Not just with solutions, but with His atoning power, grace, and never-ending love.
Think for a moment about your closest friendships or relationships. They aren’t built only on good times or compliments. They are built on honesty. On showing up. On being real, even when things are hard. Lamenting invites that kind of honest intimacy with God.
Here is the beautiful paradox of the gospel: When we bring God our unfiltered pain, He does not just listen. He transforms. Through the Atonement of Jesus Christ, our grief is not ignored or dismissed. It is met by a Savior who has already felt it, carried it, and overcome it. Because of Him, the places where we feel the most broken can become the places where He plants the deepest joy. Not surface-level happiness, but a steady, soul-deep joy that only Christ can give.
I have felt that in my own life. When we lost our babies, I was not happy. The days felt long and heavy, and nothing about that season felt fair. There were moments when I did not even know what to say in prayer. I just had tears. Yet underneath all of the hurt, there was a quiet, steady peace that I knew was not coming from me. It was the Savior. He was holding me up when I could not hold myself. It was joy, not in the sense of smiling, but in the sense of being carried.
President Russell M. Nelson taught: “When the focus of our lives is on God’s plan of salvation … and Jesus Christ and His gospel, we can feel joy regardless of what is happening—or not happening—in our lives.” [9]
Notice he uses the word joy. Joy and sorrow can live side by side. Often, it’s through lamenting, that we open ourselves to experience this type of joy.
This year, my family and I have held onto this beautiful truth more than ever before. Recently, my dad was diagnosed with stage 4 lung cancer. It came on suddenly, and left us confused, overwhelmed, and completely shocked. While this diagnosis has brought fear, doubt, heartache, and anxiety, it has also opened our hearts to a deep and unexpected sense of peace; a peace rooted in the plan of salvation and in the eternal truths we know belong to our family through Jesus Christ.
Each day is a struggle for my dad as he begins to navigate this new reality, but God has sent countless earthly angels to strengthen him and my mom. Nothing can fully remove the weight of what he is facing, yet as my dad and our family have leaned on the Savior for comfort, we have still felt an undeniable joy, a joy that comes from faith in Christ and trust in His promises.
I’d like to share one touching example of that joy. The Primary children in my parents’ ward surprised them by coming to their back porch to sing “Sacred Grove” to my dad.
This moment reminded us that even in the midst of sorrow, Christ sends light, and that through Him, joy can quietly grow right alongside our grief.
Three years after losing our first baby, Brooke and I welcomed our daughter, Penny, into the world.
She is beautiful. She is full of light. And every time I hold her, I feel hope: Hope that God sees the full story. Hope that sorrow isn’t the end. Hope that joy can be born from mourning.
Penny doesn’t erase our pain, but she reminds us that God was never absent. He was with us in the silence. He was preparing something beautiful, something we couldn’t see yet. And here’s something I’ve come to believe with my whole heart: God doesn’t just want to hear from you when you’re thankful. He wants to hear from you when you’re sad. When you’re frustrated. When you’re angry, helpless, or confused. Not because He’s waiting to scold you, but because He loves you. Because you’re His. Because He’s a Father who wants a relationship, not just performance.
If you’re feeling stuck, numb, or like heaven has gone quiet, I invite you to lament. Be real. Be reverent. Be honest. Be faithful. God can handle your pain. More importantly, He walks with you in it. I testify that Jesus Christ knows your heart perfectly and that He is with you in your wilderness. And when you stay in relationship with Him through praise, thanks, and yes, lament, you will come to know His love in a deeper, more personal way than ever before.
In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.
Notes
[1] Doctrine and Covenants 121:1-2.
[2] Doctrine and Covenants 121:7.
[3] 2 Nephi 4:17.
[4] 2 Nephi 4:19.
[5] 2 Nephi 4:19.
[6] 2 Nephi 4:20.
[7] Matthew 26:39.
[8] Matthew 27:46.
[9] Russell M. Nelson, “Joy and Spiritual Survival,” Ensign or Liahona, October 2016.
About Perry Rockwood
Perry Rockwood was born in Salt Lake City, Utah, in 1995 but grew up in Enumclaw, Washington. Perry attended BYU–Hawaii in 2013 to play for the men’s basketball team. From 2014 to 2016, he served in the Las Vegas, Nevada Mission. Perry graduated from BYU–Idaho with an emphasis in public relations and received his master’s degree in professional communication from Southern Utah University in 2024. He is an adjunct professor for the public speaking class in the Communication Department, and he works full-time as the Social Media Manager for BYU–Idaho.
Perry married his childhood friend and sweetheart, Brooke, on April 15, 2017, in the Provo City Center Temple. His hobbies include playing, coaching and watching basketball, as well as scrolling social media. He also enjoys spending time with close friends and family, especially as a new girl dad. Perry’s favorite places are the beach and Disneyland.