“Even when my heart is in pieces, I will lift my hands and whisper a broken hallelujah. Because God is still worthy.”

t has almost been two years since I’ve spoken to my estranged adult daughter.

Just typing that sentence brings a lump to my throat. It’s a silent pain that most people don’t understand unless they’ve lived it.

And if you’ve found your way here, maybe you do understand.

Maybe you’re living it too.

There are days when the weight of it presses down so hard, I can barely breathe—let alone sing. And yet, somewhere deep inside me, past all the grief and disappointment, I find myself whispering a broken hallelujah.

I don’t sing it with joy. I don’t raise it with strength. I whisper it. I offer it. I give what I can, even when what I have is shattered.

Estrangement has become a wilderness I never saw coming. There’s no roadmap for this place, no timeline for healing, and no clear answers. Whether you’re a parent or an adult child walking this path, you know how disorienting it is. For me, it’s felt like exile—disconnected, lonely, and confusing. But one thing I’ve learned in the desert is that God doesn’t need my worship to be polished or perfect. He just wants it to be honest.

Broken Doesn’t Mean Worthless

Sometimes my hallelujah comes out sounding like a sob.Sometimes it’s laced with anger, guilt, regret, or confusion.And most of the time, it’s messy.

But I’ve realized something: it still matters.

God has never asked me to get it all together before I come to Him. He’s not scared of my questions, and He’s not disappointed by my pain. In fact, Scripture tells me He is close to the brokenhearted (Psalm 34:18).

That means me. That means you.

Estrangement stripped me down to my bare bones. It took away the comfortable illusion that I could fix everything if I just loved harder, worked more, prayed better. But in its place, it’s created a holy hunger—a hunger for healing, a hunger for peace, and a hunger to worship God not for what He’s done, but simply for who He is.

Praise as Resistance

When I lift my hands or bow my head in worship during this season, it isn’t because everything is okay. It’s because I refuse to let despair have the final word. My hallelujah is an act of rebellion against hopelessness. It’s my declaration that God is still at work, even when I can’t see it.

This isn’t about denial. It’s about defiance.I’m saying: “This grief won’t define me. This silence won’t swallow me whole. I still believe.”

Sometimes the bravest thing I do in a day is just show up—to therapy, to church, to prayer, to community, to the mirror. And in those moments, when all I have is a few broken pieces, I lay them down and whisper: “Here I am, Lord. I still trust You.”

My Broken Hallelujah Is Still Worship

No one sees all the battles I fight inside.No one hears all the prayers I whisper through tears.No one knows how many times I’ve thought, “I can’t do this anymore.”

But God sees. He hears. And He knows.Psalm 56:8 tells me He keeps track of all my sorrows and collects every tear I cry. Nothing is wasted—not even this.

So today, if all I have is fragments, I still choose to offer them.If all I can do is breathe and pray, I still call it worship.If all I can give is a broken hallelujah, I trust that it still reaches heaven.

Because He is still worthy.

And I am still His.

Let’s Talk

Have you ever worshiped from a broken place?

How do you hold onto faith in the middle of your own estrangement story?

I’d love to hear from you. You’re not alone here.

💬 By the way, I now have a TikTok channel where more conversation can take place.

It’s a safe space for anyone walking through estrangement, whether you're a parent, an adult child, or somewhere in between.

Come on over and follow: @Strangely.estrang

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