The news today gathers suffering from many quarters: bombing of civilians, aircraft disasters, deliberate misinformation, political persecution, disease outbreaks, the vulnerable left without recourse. It would be easy to read such a catalog as evidence of abandonment. Yet the writer of Lamentations knew something about witnessing overwhelming ruin—his own city destroyed, his people scattered—and in that extremity he discovered not that suffering had ended, but that mercy itself was renewable, arriving not as a one-time deliverance but as a daily gift that outlasts the night. To recognize this is not to minimize today’s anguish, but to ask: where do we turn when systems fail, and what sustains those who tend to the broken? The answer may lie not in the headlines themselves, but in the quiet fidelity of those who show up tomorrow, and the next day, because they trust in something older than the day’s disasters.