I love praise — it fits my culture. As a Southern woman, I’ve been told not to “air my dirty laundry on the line,” and I am asked to be “nice” and to avoid making things messy. Because of that pull to create a happy community, I’ve leaned into praise. I love the order and simplicity of singing praise to the Lord.

But coming from a culture that (over)values praise, I get stuck when I hit pain and injustice. In college and the years after, I was able to push aside the pain, but with the murder of Trayvon Martin and the shootings of the unarmed black men that came after, my world broke and I did not know how to engage the Lord. My prayers of praise felt empty and disingenuous.