Tangled Emotions, Honest Prayers: Learning to Pray with Jesus in Gethsemane
- Amber Thiessen
- 10 minutes ago
- 8 min read
“Mom, why’s she crying? I just asked what all those dots on her face are.”
The question, overheard at a park while playing with friends, was directed at a teenage girl—an innocent curiosity from a younger brother, but one that didn’t land well.
The mom’s response became a lesson in kindness, gentleness, and love. But feeling scolded, the boy pushed back: “But I was just being honest!”
Sometimes, honesty doesn’t feel polite. Sometimes, it comes across as disrespectful. So we learn to soften the edges, to keep things inside—a tendency carried into our relationship with God.
We begin to wonder: Can I really say that to God? Can I pour out what I’m actually feeling? What if it sounds selfish? What if it sounds like doubt?
In seasons of hardship we may find our prayers falling flat—not because we aren’t trying, but because we’re not sure how to bring ourselves before the Lord. We want to abide in Christ, but we don’t know how to bring our confusion, disappointment, or silence into that space. We may assume that reverence means restraint, or that spiritual maturity means always having the right words.
But Scripture invites us to pray honestly—even when our emotions are tangled, our circumstances feel unjust, and our hearts ache with questions. Honest prayer often takes the shape of lament. Mark Vroegop writes, “Lament is a prayer in pain that leads to trust.” [1] Through lament, we learn that God doesn’t just tolerate our honesty—He welcomes it, and He meets us there.
Praying In Gethsemane
The Gospels don’t shy away from Jesus’ struggle. In the garden, surrounded by his closest friends, he admits the weight of his sorrow: “My soul is very sorrowful, even to death; remain here, and watch with me” (Matt. 26:38).
Jesus, our great High Priest, was tempted in every way yet without sin. And in that moment, he prayed honestly—“My Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me” (v. 39). This wasn’t doubt. He didn’t suppress his anguish or hold back his request. He expressed it. And in doing so, he modeled a path that led to surrender.
Jesus responded to the emotion of the moment by drawing near to God—and he didn’t do it alone.
Gethsemane shows us that coming honestly—even trembling, even torn—is not just acceptable, it’s Christlike. Jesus teaches us not only to pray, but to pray honestly in the very moments we feel most overwhelmed.
Praying Honestly Without Complaining
One reason we may hesitate to talk to pray honestly is our discomfort with the idea of complaining to God. Perhaps it conjures images of our children during a particularly whiny moment, or a colleague who constantly voices dissatisfaction. Just thinking about it can make us bristle. Or maybe we associate complaint with anger directed at God and, out of reverence and holy fear, we hold back.
Time and again, the Psalms echo with complaints: “How long, O Lord…” These honest cries acknowledge the reality of our circumstances, recognizing that things are not as they should be. Yet, these words are directed to God, not out of anger, but out of the deep pain of living in a world marred by brokenness.
Working in the ER and helping others navigate mental health crises, I’m daily confronted by this brokenness. The consequences of sin stand at my doorstep—not only in my own life, but even more starkly in the suffering and injustices my patients endure. Things are not as they should be, and my heart aches over their pain.
What makes our heartfelt prayers of lament different from venting or complaining is our posture toward God. Mark Vroegop explains, “Complaint is central to lament. But Christians never complain just to complain. Instead, we bring our complaints to the Lord for the purpose of moving us toward him.” [2]
In other words, lament opens our souls not to spiral deeper into frustration, but to lead us forward in faith. Clint Watkins expands on this, noting that “grumblers let themselves stay in a cycle of perpetual complaint. Lamenters, on the other hand, fight to move beyond their pain and protest toward petition and praise.”[3] Though it may take time, lament is a faithful way of processing pain before God, wrestling toward renewed trust.
As Whitney Pipkin puts it, “Every lament is also a prayer of implausible faith... a bold declaration of at least two truths: I am hurting, and You are a God who hears.”[4] Lament is not about staying stuck in sorrow—it’s about turning honestly to the One who meets us there.
We bring our powerlessness to the Almighty, our pain to the Great Physician, and our uncertainty to the Alpha and Omega. This humility reminds us that we are looking to God’s hand for help, trusting in His strength and sovereignty.
Praying When Things Aren’t as They Should be
“For we know that the whole creation has been groaning together in the pains of childbirth until now. And not only the creation, but we ourselves, who have the firstfruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly as we wait eagerly for adoption as sons, the redemption of our bodies.” (Rom. 8:22–23).
The agony of affliction arrives against our deepest wishes, even in the face of our greatest fears.
A tragic accident takes a young life far too early. Despair creeps in, and the desire to live disappears. A body plagued with illness stops functioning as it should. Relationships are torn apart. The world is not as it should be.
For our family, one season of profound trial was marked by the illness of our youngest child. At just seven months old, she faced life-threatening pneumonia, followed by the eventual diagnosis of an immune deficiency, and finally, a bone marrow transplant. Months in the hospital passed by in a blur, the stress compounded by other difficult circumstances: our transition back to Canada, beginning pastoral ministry, my father-in-law’s heart attack, and yet another family emergency. We found ourselves hunkered down in the children’s hospital, shifting between the ICU and the ward.
Those days were filled with heartbreak and pleading, exhaustion and groaning.
Not unlike Jesus in the garden.
In Just Be Honest, Clint Watkins offers a biblical pattern for lament that serves as a guide through such overwhelming seasons. It’s a framework that helps us process sorrow in God’s presence, guarding against drifting away from Him and instead urging us to press in.
Lament begins by explaining our pain. We come to the Father with our hurt and anguish, knowing He is faithful to hear us—and that He knows our suffering intimately.
Then we express our protest, naming the reality that the world is not as it should be. We confess the weight of our discouragement, our frustration, our confusion and uncertainty.
From there, we offer earnest petitions—pleading for change, for healing, for the strength to endure, and for courage to face whatever lies ahead, even if the path looks different than we hoped.
Finally, lament leads us to praise. Not because our circumstances have shifted, but because He does not. He is faithful, even when we are not. He is good, even when the outcome is not. He is strong, even when we are weak.
As we navigate these movements of lament, we discover that it ultimately leads us into deeper trust. It invites us to lift our eyes from our pain and fix them on the God who meets us there. Through each tearful cry and heartfelt plea, we come to know we are not abandoned but held in His steadfast love.
Lament becomes a bridge—one that carries us from the turmoil of the present into the assurance of His promises.
So while I could not bring a cure, the Lord can—and has. Our great hope rests in Him and in the person and work of Christ. Though we lament that things are not as they should be, we cling to the promise that one day, they will be. It is a hope only He can provide.
Praying Imperfectly When Our Hearts Feel Tangled
“To you I lift up my eyes, O you who are enthroned in the heavens! Behold, as the eyes of servants look to the hand of their master… so our eyes look to the Lord our God, till he has mercy upon us.” (Psalm 123:1–2)
Maybe we struggle to pray honestly because we haven’t figured ourselves out yet. The situation is still unfolding, and our emotions are raw. We can feel like a tangled knot—
confused, overwhelmed, unsure how to even begin.
But our prayers don’t have to be perfect.
Sometimes I think we want everything sorted out before we come to the Lord. We want to present a neat and composed version of our heart. But real life rarely works that way. In the thick of hardship, our thoughts are scattered, our emotions are all over the place—more like knotted yarn than a straight line.
This longing for order often reveals our desire for control. When our thoughts feel organized, it gives us a sense of stability. But when life unravels, we’re reminded how little control we actually have. We can’t force outcomes. We can’t change others or soften hearts. We can’t gain instant insight into what God is doing. And that powerlessness is disorienting.
Yet even in the mess, we’re invited to come.
Psalm 123 models this kind of dependent posture.
When our emotions are high and clarity feels far off, we don’t need to vent aimlessly—but we can still meet with our Lord and Savior who receives us as we are. He helps us sort through the tangle.
The goal isn’t perfection. The goal is connection.
As Mark Vroegop reminds us,“Too many people think real worship only means an upbeat and happy demeanor. But grief-filled prayers of pain while seeking God are among the deepest expressions of worship.” [5]
When we bring our incomplete, imperfect, emotionally knotted selves to the Lord, we’re not doing prayer wrong—we’re doing it honestly and worshipfully. And that’s the beginning of transformation.
The Faithfulness We Find
When we come to the Lord in honest prayer—in our hurt, our confusion, and our vulnerability—we are drawing near to Him. And as we do, we find that He has already drawn near to us. His promises still hold: He hears us when we pray, and He will never leave us.
He is the constant in our chaos, the steadfast anchor in the storm, the rock in times of trouble, the shield in every battle.
In the garden of Gethsemane, Jesus showed us what this looks like: honest, unfiltered prayer in the face of anguish. He didn’t wait to feel composed—He brought His sorrow to the Father. And when we do the same, we follow in His steps.
As we learn to pray like this—to speak truthfully with God even when the path is dark—we begin to trust Him more deeply. Not because everything makes sense, but because we’ve seen His faithfulness up close.
When was the last time you prayed honestly—even if your words felt messy or incomplete? What might it look like to follow Jesus’ example in Gethsemane and bring your unfiltered heart to the Father this week?
[1] Vroegop, Mark. Dark Clouds, Deep Mercy: Discovering the Grace of Lament. Crossway, 2019, 26.
[2] Vroegop, Dark Clouds, Deep Mercy, 29.
[3] Watkins, Clint. Just Be Honest: How to Worship through Tears and Pray without Pretending. P&R Publishing, 2023, 57
[4] Pipkin, Whitney. We Shall All Be Changed: How Facing Death with Loved Ones Transforms Us. Chicago: Moody Publishers, 2024, ch.3.
[5] Vroegop, Dark Clouds, Deep Mercy, 40.