Lamenting with the Laid Off

Reflections after 60 days of losing my job

I was let go the day after I made my first mortgage payment.

Which happened to be the same day as my 5-year work anniversary.

Although January 6th is infamous in our country, Sarah and I had happy associations with the date this year. We paid our first mortgage (ouch and yay?) and I reached a new milestone at the best company I’ve been a part of.

But January 7th sucked.

That’s when I was let go while sitting in a Switchyards phone booth, surrounded by strangers, feeling like I can’t breathe because the news was hard to swallow and the booth was tighter than a New York City closet.

It’s weird to be in a moment knowing that moment will change your life in ways you can’t predict. It feels like you shouldn’t be there, even though it’s your life. So when the Zoom call ended, I dashed for the parking lot and finally felt what Sarah has told me for years: the best cries are in cars.

Hard-earned lessons on empathy

My pastor talks a lot about paying attention to what comes out of you when life squeezes. What came out of me was normal for getting laid off: grief. But what came out of Sarah was a gift from God: compassion.

Crying in the arms of Sarah on the driveway of our new home took me back a decade to when I cried in my mom’s arms after a breakup. Because that’s what getting let go is: a professional breakup. But you don’t have professional emotions. You just have human ones. And the human response to a break is pain.

Someone recently asked me when I’ve felt most seen. I told them about Sarah in this season. She hasn’t said anything profound that would make for a good caption or tattoo. Or maybe she has. I just don’t remember much of what she’s said because I’m more comforted by how she’s made me feel. She’s hurt with me. I think that’s what empathy is. To show up, to see someone in their pain, and to have the courage to stay with them.

I’m grateful for family and friends who did this virtually. Text messages, voice messages, phone calls. I felt seen every time someone reached out. But I also felt regret. I felt ashamed looking back at every time someone in my life was laid off and I failed to reach out due to fear. Afraid of saying the wrong thing. Or afraid of not being close enough with the person to offer them comfort. I now see how those excuses are more shallow than a pothole in the rain.

This season has proven to me that it’s better to show up for hurting folks in some capacity rather than do nothing at all. Because a friend’s presence, even from afar, is a weighted blanket for the soul.

I’ve also learned that the law of diminishing returns doesn’t pertain to empathy.

The only thing that feels more comforting than a friend reaching out during a crisis is when that friend follows up. A mark of friendship is when someone doesn’t forget.

Some of the most important recurring dates in my calendar are moments that have shaped my friends. From losing a parent to gaining a spouse, moments shape people. And if we can remember those moments and follow up, our friends will know they’re not alone.

When grief turns to lament

We know grief. It’s the natural, emotional response to loss. It’s marked by sadness and silence. To grieve is to make a journey through stages: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. We can all relate to grief because to live is to experience loss.

But lamenting is foreign to us.

Lamenting is to invite hope into your wrestling match with sorrow.

While grieving is often marked by an inner sorrow you keep to yourself, lamenting is to express your hard feelings with hope. It’s traditionally a biblical practice, where you bring your pain to God in raw ways. You’re invited to target God with your troubles.

A few weeks after I was let go, a friend asked me if I’ve shouted at God yet. It felt wrong to even consider. But as I look at the history of Christianity, it’s clear that people who followed God closely weren’t afraid of being honest with Him about their feelings. There was no sugarcoating their hurt. They were brutally honest, knowing God desired an authentic heart more than a polished performance.

There’s an entire book of the Bible called Lamentations. It’s five sorrowful poems by the prophet Jeremiah after the destruction of Jerusalem in 586 B.C. And the Psalms are primarily David shouting at God about his sadness, anger, and fear. If the story stopped there, we would just have grief. But lament is when grief takes a turn toward hope.

Grief turns to lament when Jeremiah not only cries over the crushing of Jerusalem, but also hopes in God to build it up again.

"The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases; His mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning; great is Your faithfulness." — Lamentations 3:22-23

David was the king of naming his pain out loud long before counselors encouraged us to. What set him apart as a “man after God’s own heart” is that he brought his bare self to God, especially his pain, while trusting that he would one day be made whole.

"Why are you cast down, O my soul, and why are you in turmoil within me? Hope in God; for I shall again praise Him, my salvation and my God." — Psalm 42:11

A better way forward

Choosing to lament is not about suppressing grief or pretending things are fine. That’s toxic positivity. True lament doesn’t ignore sorrow. It gives it a place to breathe. It allows grief and hope to exist in the same space, refusing to minimize pain while also refusing it to have the final word.

If you only hurt, you’ll stay stuck in sorrow, delaying your healing and growth. If you only hope, you’ll only complicate your pain by delaying your inevitable grieving journey. There’s a time to hurt and a time to hope. Lamenting is when those times intersect.

For my believing friends, lamenting is an acknowledgement that God tells long stories. It’s trusting that He can weave together hurt and hope for your good and His glory.

Getting laid off has felt like buying a new car — I see it everywhere (and I’m out a lot of money). From COVID to DOGE, the past five years have pushed many people out of their work and into the unknown places of pain. Just over the past two months, I’ve met more people who have been let go than I’ve ever known. Or maybe it’s just that my experience has heightened my awareness of those in similar seasons. Pain can be the great teacher of empathy.

If you’ve recently lost your job, I’m sorry. I know it hurts. I hope you can express your pain while holding space for comfort to creep in. I hope you can lament with those you love.

If you have not been directly impacted by layoffs, I hope you can learn from my mistakes and keep your eyes open to those around you who are hurting from a job loss. You don’t need the “right” words to say. And you don’t need to be “close” to the person impacted. The most hopeful act you can do is to show up and have the courage to stay.

Thanks for staying with me,

✌️

— Luke

P.S. If you’re asking, “What the h*ck is Luke doing now,” then thanks for asking. I’m two months into freelance writing. PTL it’s going dandy! I’ve written for some amazing brands, like Koko, Upside, Passion City Church, The Georgia Museum of Art, Garden City Equity, and more.

About 80% of my work so far has been video scripting, which is rad because it’s what I most enjoy. The other 20% is a hodgepodge of landing pages, social media, and ad copy.

If you need a freelance writer or know someone who does, then I’d love to chat. Feel free to respond to this email.

Onward and upward, friends!