When suffering arrives suddenly and in scale—underground, across borders, through rising prices that hollow out ordinary life—the first response is often a kind of vertigo: how do we hold these sorrows? The writer of Lamentations knew this dizziness. Rather than rush past it or offer easy comfort, he stayed in the memory of affliction long enough to feel its weight, then discovered something stubborn and true underneath: that mercies continue, that compassion is not withheld, that there is a faithfulness that does not depend on circumstance. This is not a denial of what is broken. It is an invitation to notice, even now, where care persists—in communities that rebuild, in workers who deliver aid despite obstacles, in strangers who choose connection across walls. Where might we look today to see mercies that are, improbably, still new?