The weeper

Some call him the weeping prophet.

Jeremiah.

Chosen.

Burdened.

Misunderstood.

His tears weren’t a weakness. They were a calling.

He didn’t cry because he lacked faith.

He cried because he carried it so fiercely.

So honestly.

So painfully real.

And sometimes…

I think I know what it means to wear that mantle.

I never asked for it.

I never wanted to be the weeper.

But grief, like a river, carved out places in me I didn’t know existed.

It hollowed out my laughter

and filled the gaps with groanings I couldn’t explain.

Tears that burned.

That begged.

I used to think strength looked like stoicism.

But Jeremiah taught me otherwise.

He taught me that heaven doesn’t flinch at trembling voices.

That God doesn’t rebuke the brokenhearted who dare to bring Him questions wrapped in wet pillowcases and bloodshot eyes.

I wonder if anyone ever told him,

“Cheer up, prophet. Be grateful.”

I wonder if they tried to fix what God was using.

I wonder if they understood the cost of carrying truth in a world that wanted comfort.

Because sometimes carrying the Word means carrying the weight.

Sometimes the fire shut up in your bones scorches everything you once called safe.

Sometimes love looks like lament.

And obedience looks like an altar soaked in tears.

Jeremiah cried for a nation.

I’ve cried for a family.

For a child.

For the ache of prayers that haven’t returned with an answer.

For doors that stayed closed.

I mourn what could’ve been.

What never will be.

What still might.

I’ve cried into the silence.

And against it.

I’ve asked God to speak,

only to find that sometimes He speaks loudest

in the sound of my own soul breaking.

But I keep weeping.

Because the weeping ones still worship.

The broken ones still believe.

And heaven has always been moved by the sound of sorrow tethered to hope.

Not every miracle shouts.

Some weep.

Some bloom quietly in the dark.

Some rise from ashes.

Some heal in the hollow.

Some are born in the agony of letting go.

Jeremiah’s name is etched in eternity

not because he was strong,

but because he was surrendered.

And maybe mine will be too.

So if I’m the weeper,

if sorrow is the only song I know how to sing,

then let it be a hymn that rises to the throne.

Let it be a cry that pierces heaven.

Let it be oil on His feet.

Let it be worship.

Maybe the tears are my assignment.

Maybe, like Jeremiah, my identity is not in what I build—But in what I break over.

Maybe that’s how God rebuilds.

Let them call me the weeper.

I’d rather be found weeping before the Lord

Than pretending to be strong without Him.

And when this world feels too loud and my prayers too small, I’ll remember that He bottles my tears,He listens to my groanings,

And He never despises the offering of the weeper.

Let the world forget, but heaven remembers:

The weeping prophet was chosen.

So maybe the weeping daughter is too.