My dad often repeats the phrase, “We have much to be thankful for.” While I was growing up, he’d say it at the start of a meal, when the family celebrated a holiday or a birthday, or simply at the end of a long day. For years, I thought those words were just another dad-ism, a phrase heard so often I’d be tempted to dismiss the sentiment and opt for an eye-roll instead.

But that regular expression of gratitude wasn’t a cliche or truism. For him, it has been a lifeline. I heard him say “we have much to be thankful for” while his hair fell out and his body weakened from cancer treatments. He said, “we have much to be thankful for” through tears, praying before dinner while my mom slowly deteriorated from her own cancer, lying in her bed just down the hall.

His gratitude was never an attempt to put on a fake smile. Instead, those words were spoken as a liturgy tethering our broken hearts to our sure hope. Gratitude didn’t replace lament; it often grew out of it.

Every night before my husband and I go to bed, we tiptoe into our kids’ rooms. We give them one last kiss, and then we straighten out their blankets and tuck the covers around them. And every single night since the twins were babies, I’ve put my hand on their backs, leaned in close, and listened for the sound of their breathing.

The habit started out of fear. For months after we brought our tiny newborns home from the hospital, I’d check on them incessantly. I’d pick them up, smell their sweet skin, and watch their chest rise and fall as they inhaled and exhaled. I needed to hold them just one more time before collapsing into my own bed for a few hours. My husband reassured me regularly, “They’re okay. They’re going to be okay,” and I knew—most likely—he was right. At the time, I didn’t think I was being an anxious parent, but looking back, I can see how fearful I really was—and often still am.

Think positive. Hope for the best. It’ll all work out.

I read tweets and Instagram posts with those kinds of phrases, and the cynic in me shakes my head. The optimism can be helpful at times, I suppose. At the very least, those words reveal our craving for hope. We long for something different than the brokenness we see around us. But those phrases are like candy. They may perk us up for a moment, but they will never sustain.

Other times we hear verses recited like, “All things work together for good” (Romans 8:28). We know that message is true, and we believe it. But at the moment phrases like, “Woe to me!”[1] or “Out of the depths I cry!”[2] feel more accurate to the stirrings of our souls. We wish we could tie our sad stories up in a bow, find a solution, or tack on a happy ending. But grief, pain, loss, fear, and heartache cling to us like a snare, and for many of us, cries of distress are all we can utter.