when joy comes in the morning...

(a follow up to this post)

One of my favorite passages of scripture is Psalm 30. Over and over these past six years, that passage has come to mind and I've thought especially about two portions...the second part of verse 5:
Weeping may last for the night,
But a shout of joy comes in the morning.

and verses 11-12:
You have turned for me my mourning into dancing;
You have loosed my sackcloth and girded me with gladness,
That my soul may sing praise to You and not be silent
O LORD my God, I will give thanks to You forever.

Yes, grief sneaks in...but joy comes in the morning and sometimes joy can even come in the mourning.

In December 2003, I miscarried our fourth baby. I remember the excitement of telling the kids I was pregnant. We announced it to family via our Christmas letter and we spent November and most of December discussing names, guessing about the gender and dreaming what life would be like with four...that seemed like so much more than three! When I began to miscarry at Kev's family Christmas party, I was crushed. We left immediately and prayed on the way home that our little ones life would be protected. It was, but not in the way we desired. From my womb to Jesus' arms. The best protection of life I can imagine, but oh how it hurt. I ached to know the gender, have just a glimpse of what my little one would have been like, here in this life. In the midst of that pain...joy came in the mourning. Jerald and Rocklin were insistent that the baby was a boy and they wanted to pick a name. There may be a girl in heaven named Thomas Dominic, but that's okay. The joy of seeing such little boys love a baby they would never meet is indescribable. In a world that often doesn't recognize unborn children, let alone miscarried ones, my boys now six years later still talk about their baby in heaven.

Just about three months later, I got the urgent phone call that my brother was in the hospital and not doing well. We quickly got things in order, clothes packed, etc and left for the seven or so hour drive to New Hampshire. The next couple of weeks are mostly a blur, but I remember so many little moments where my children brought joy in the mourning. Hugs just when I needed them, laughter to break the silence of pain, the light of life in the midst of darkness.
At some point during the week before Aaron died, it became apparent that he wasn't going to make it. I remember going in to talk to him for a bit, telling him that I loved him and was sorry for the argument we had a few months earlier. We hadn't spoken since. Until that week as I stood by his side as he was in a semi-coma, fighting for his life. At first, he was able to squeeze hands a bit. Some say it was involuntary. I believe otherwise. I believe he heard my words that day and that we were able to reconcile our relationship even with him unable to speak. There was a playroom down the end of a long corridor and that's where the kids were with various relatives. Kev was at the other end of the corridor waiting just outside the ICU's double doors for me to come out. I stumbled through the doors and into his arms.
It's funny that so much is a blur, but I still remember the laughter of my kids resonating down the hall as I stood sobbing into the chest of my husband. After several minutes, the sobbing turned to wailing and I collapsed onto the cold tile floor. Kev didn't really know what to do, so he just knelt beside me and rubbed my back while I wailed. After what seemed like hours, but was probably only about 10 mins. I heard the distinctive, precocious, squeaky voice of my not quite five years old, eldest son.
Um, Mommy?
Mommy, why are you on the floor and crying?

Well, little man, Uncle Aaron is very sick and I think he's going to die and to go to Heaven. I love him a lot and I will miss him a lot, so I'm crying because I'm very sad.

Silence.
Classic Jerald face. Straight face...no emotion.

I look to Kev for help. I'm still crying a bit and not sure what/if anything to say.

Jerald breaks the silence.
Well, I will miss him too, (pause) but I ain't crying about it.
Let's go play!

I laugh. I might have even snorted a little. Then, we went to the playroom.

Laughter through tears. Joy in the mourning.

The past three years, as we've gone through the deaths of four grandparents (two on the same day even), several other relatives and even one young friend, I can't begin to recount all the moments where joy came in the mourning. How good came out of the awful. Broken relationships repaired as the brevity of life was considered. People realizing the need to live, love and laugh instead of focus on the negative. A scattered extended family coming together to grieve and remember together. My son singing at some of the funerals out of a desire to use music as a means of healing and comfort. Snuggling with my baby-girl and crying together and remembering together and laughing together.

Snippets of joy in the mourning.

Yes, I have moments of grief that even these years later sometimes feel suffocating. Yet, the moments of joy are so much more significant. In all of it, I strive to "sing praise and not be silent, I want to give thanks forever."

Romans 8:28 And we know that God causes all things to work together for good to those who love God, to those who are called according to His purpose.

I don't always understand it. I struggle and fumble in the dark, trying to make sense of it all. Yet, I believe God's word to be true. I believe it's often in life's darkest hours where we grow the most and learn the most. I believe there is no depths of sorrow so deep that His love isn't deeper still. So I press on, crying a little and laughing a lot...remembering the bad and learning from it, remembering the good and cherishing it.