By the waters of Babylon, there we sat down and wept, when we remembered Zion.
Rivers of Babylon. Not the Jordan, not home water — a foreign river, in the country that conquered them. That's where this psalm plants its opening image: people sitting down by water that isn't theirs, weeping because a place they loved is gone and they aren't sure it's coming back.
What's striking is what they do with the grief. They don't perform being fine. They sit down and cry, specifically remembering what was lost. There's no rush here to explain the exile theologically or find the silver lining. Just people, by a river, letting themselves feel exactly what displacement feels like.
If you've ever sat somewhere unfamiliar — a new city, a life that didn't turn out the way you planned — missing something you can't get back, this verse doesn't ask you to skip that part. It starts there, honestly, before it goes anywhere else.
If you're sitting by your own version of a foreign river right now, this psalm suggests grief is a fair place to start, not something to hide.
A short video on this is coming soon — for now, read on.