"Turned" is a violent word. It means reversed. Flipped. Not gradually transitioned — turned. Like a page. Like a tide. And the speed of it matters, because grief makes you believe it's permanent. Grief whispers: this is your life now. This weight. This silence. This heaviness. It tells you the mourning is the destination, not the layover. But David says it was turned. Past tense. Done. Complete. The mourning became dancing. The sackcloth became gladness. And the transformation didn't require David to work through his feelings at the right pace or process his trauma through the correct framework. It required God to move.

And the purpose of the turning — "that my heart may sing and not be silent." God didn't turn the mourning into dancing because he was tired of the sadness. He turned it because silence was never the plan. Your voice — your specific, irreplaceable, nobody-else-sounds-like-that voice — was designed for something besides grieving. Not that the grieving is wrong. But it was always meant to be a chapter, not the whole book. And the chapter after this one? It has a melody. You can't hear it yet. But it's already been composed. And when it arrives, your heart won't stay silent. It won't be able to.