“My soul is in deep anguish. How long, Lord, how long?” (Psalm 6:3)

Have you ever asked God, “how long?” “How long God until you restore me?”

This morning while reading Psalms, this verse leapt off the page at me and penetrated my heart. I, instantly, connected with David and the feelings he must have felt when he wrote this.

He goes on to say, “I am worn out from sobbing, all night I flood my bed with weeping.”

If there has ever been a verse that I could relate to, it is this one. I am worn out from sobbing. My nights are filled with weeping. And I cry out “how long, Lord?”

There are moments in life when pain doesn’t just touch the surface—it goes all the way down into the soul. Psalm 6:3 is one of those verses that doesn’t try to hide that reality. It is raw. It is honest. It is a cry from someone who is exhausted, overwhelmed, and unsure how much more they can carry.

David, the writer of this psalm, doesn’t come to God with polished words or spiritual strength. He comes with something far more real: desperation. He doesn’t pretend everything is okay. Instead, he asks a question many of us have asked in our darkest moments—“How long, Lord?”

Psalm 6:3 gives words to those seasons where relief feels delayed, prayers feel unanswered, and hope feels distant. David doesn’t just say he is struggling—he says his soul is in deep anguish. That means the pain is not just emotional or physical, but internal. It is the kind of suffering that affects everything: thoughts, sleep, strength, and spirit.

And yet, even in that anguish, he is still talking to God.

That matters.

I know this isn’t the kind of language that fits neatly into “church talk,” and some people might even judge it. But there have been moments when I’ve looked up and said, “Where the hell are You, Lord?” or “Why aren’t You fucking doing something?” I’ve said it raw, frustrated, angry.

Yes, I’ve cussed in my prayers.

I don’t believe God is shocked by that. He already sees the heart behind the words. He already knows the frustration, the grief, the exhaustion, the internal breaking points. And I don’t think He runs from a prayer just because it comes out messy.

If anything, I think He leans in closer to it.

I believe God understands the weight behind the words more than the words themselves. I think He aches with us in ways we can’t fully comprehend. And I think there is something sacred about not hiding the truth of what we feel in His presence.

I think about my kids in those moments. When they are upset, confused, or hurting and they come to me, what reaches me more deeply? Is it the perfectly composed explanation, or the broken, stumbling, emotional outpouring—even if it’s messy, even if it’s imperfect?

It’s always the realness.

Even when their words are tangled or emotional or imperfect, I would rather have their honesty than a polished version of what they think I want to hear. Because real connection is built in truth, not performance.

And maybe prayer is the same way.

Not perfect words. Not polished faith. Just honest hearts reaching for a God who already knows exactly what’s inside them.

God is not intimidated by our honesty. In fact, Scripture repeatedly shows that He meets people in their most unfiltered moments. Psalm 6:3 reminds us that we do not have to clean up our pain before bringing it to God.

God, may I always come to you with my brokenness, whether I crawl or walk, just help me come! Look past the messiness, the humanness, the sin, the anger and meet me right where I am. The days that I am battered and barely surviving, the days I don’t want to go on, the days all I can do is shake my fist at the sky…. meet me there. I don’t ask you to fix anything, all I ask is that you sit with me, that you don’t leave me alone. Stay with me.