Pain That Prays

Hannah's Grief (52 Ways to Pray)

Mar 19, 2026

*Saint Mary Magdalene*, Guido Reni (c. 1632-1637)

A Note:

This is a guest post from my friend Jake Jaudes.

Jake is the pastor of Together Church in Jacksonville, Florida. He’s a brilliant communicator who treats the Scriptures with incredible care and reverence. Here he shares a raw, honest reflection on Hannah’s grief and how it resonates with our own.

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Nearly seven years ago, my wife Chelsea and I sat down and decided it was time to start a family. We had just helped foster our niece, and something stirred in us—a desire for a child of our own. We had no idea what we were walking into.

Miscarriage. Ectopic pregnancy. ER visits in the middle of the night. And nearly seven years later, we’re still in it.

Early in the process, somewhere in the fog of grief, I found myself doing something I’m not proud of. I started keeping score. We’ve been faithful. We serve. We give. We show up. And yet—people who didn’t seem to be doing any of those things were holding babies. I wasn’t just confused. I was angry. And underneath the anger was something uglier: I thought we deserved it more.

That’s a hard thing to type. But it’s true.

It was in that season that God brought us to a story in 1 Samuel 1—two women named Hannah and Peninnah. And truthfully, it dug deep into the emotions that we felt.

Both women are longing for a desire they can’t fill.

Peninnah has children—a full table, a legacy, everything the culture said made a woman valuable. But she lacked the love of her husband. That belongs to Hannah.

Hannah has her husband’s love — so much so that he gives her a double portion at the feast, looks her in the eyes and says am I not more to you than ten sons? But she has no child.

Two women. Deep pain. But they couldn’t be more different in how they carry them.

Peninnah turns her pain outward. Year after year, she provokes Hannah. She picks at the wound. And I understand her more than I want to admit—because that’s exactly what I was doing in my mind. I had made a list of people who had what I wanted and decided they didn’t deserve it. I told myself it was righteousness. It wasn’t. It was bitterness taking root.

Hannah, though. Hannah gets desperate.

She doesn’t even have the strength to eat. She can’t hold herself together at what is supposed to be a celebration. She’s sitting at a feast celebrating the blessings of God with tears streaming down her face and she doesn’t even have the energy to pretend. Many of us can relate to this reality. Trying to sing songs of God’s faithfulness—yet you struggle to see that faithfulness. Despite all of the emotions Hannah would feel–she finally comes to a crossroads. Will I allow my grief to overcome me—or will I bring it to God?

The Scripture says finally Hannah makes a decision and she rose. 1 Samuel 1:9.

She gathered what strength she had and walked to the temple and poured herself out before God. She prayed so desperately that the priest thought she was drunk. And when he confronted her, she didn’t fake it. She said—”I am a woman troubled in spirit. I have been speaking out of my great anxiety and vexation.”

This is real prayer. Not performance. Not structure. Her soul fully surrendered before God.

Here’s what wrecked me about what happens next.

The priest speaks over her—go in peace, the God of Israel will grant your petition. And the text says that from that moment, Hannah ate. Her face was no longer sad.

She didn’t have a child yet. The miracle hadn’t come. The thing she had been crying out for—still absent.

But something had shifted. God gave her peace before he gave her the baby.

In my suffering, I used to hear people say just give it time and I’d nod and die a little inside. Time doesn’t heal anything. Time just puts distance between you and the pain—until something breaks through and it’s all right there again. What Hannah found wasn’t the healing of time. It was the grace that comes when you finally stop managing your grief and just surrender it.

I don’t know what you’re carrying right now. Maybe it’s infertility. Maybe it’s something entirely different—a marriage, a prodigal child, a dream that keeps not happening. But I wonder if you’ve been doing what I was doing—keeping score, projecting your ache onto others, waiting for the miracle before your peace.

Hannah got up. She walked to the place of worship. She poured out everything she had.

And God met her there—and filled her desire with himself.

That’s the miracle. And that can be your miracle too.

I would give you a prayer to pray—but maybe today is the day you just pour your soul before the Lord.