Joy Comes in the Morning

I was looking through old photos a few days ago, and I came across a photo of mom that was taken a few months before she died, almost ten years ago now. I remember the circumstances surrounding the photo like it was yesterday.

She was suffering, fighting a disease that a year before her diagnosis I didn’t even know existed. Mom’s muscles were atrophied, and she could no longer talk, but she was still vocal. Oh, was she vocal. She’d grunt or yelp or do whatever needed to be done to help us figure out what she needed. And sometimes, Mom got a little creative in her communication.

On one occasion, I gave her orange juice, but she wanted a different kind of juice. How do you tell your daughter that you want grape juice when you don’t have use of words or hands? You take your elbow and with all the strength you can muster push the juice off the tray. That’s how. And It worked. She smiled as I filled her cup with grape juice, and I couldn’t help but laugh.

But sometimes mom was just quiet, and every so often in those still moments, I would notice tears running down her cheek communicating a depth of emotions in total silence. These moments were few as mom didn’t typically like to show her emotions, but on the day of this photo, she couldn’t muster back what she was feeling, so she tears poured down as she stared straight ahead.

We were in her care center room, watching with her an episode of one of her favorite TV shows. I wasn’t quite sure what to say, if anything, so I simply asked her if she was OK. Mom didn’t respond. I tried to act like my focus was on the TV so I wouldn’t embarrass her, but I kept a glance out of the corner of my eye. She was in her nightgown; it was the same one she had been in when I saw her the day before.

“Hey, Mom. Do you want to get dressed?”

She immediately stirred, so I helped her up, and we began the process of getting her ready. For what? I remember thinking. What’s the point of this everyday routine in her declining state? A ritual that most don’t even think about was slowly becoming foreign in mom’s small nursing room.

Dignity. The word came to mind often. Mom welcomed in the mundane on days that were anything but normal.

Dressing her was a difficult process, and not just because of the physical challenges, but because mom rejected almost every outfit I chose. Stubborn. Another word that often came to mind. But after pushing away several choices, she was satisfied with my pick of a particular pair of black pants, a blue shirt, and new, gray vest that we had purchased a few days before.Mom’s tears were gone as I grabbed her hairbrush and put on her shoes.

Dignity. She still wanted to feel like she was worth a clean, cute outfit for the day.

It seemed that my spruced-up mom needed an outing, so I helped her into the wheelchair, and we walked the 3rd floor of the care center stopping to talk with a few nurses and other residents, some of whom commented on her new, grey vest. We made a quick stop to the deck, but she clearly did not want to be wheeled out. She did, however, want the door opened for a few moments. Perhaps she just wanted to feel the cool air and breathe in the outside which she was rarely exposed to during those days.

I pushed her slowly back to the room and felt my own tears begin to develop. It had been a good hour. A very good hour. Mom sat on the edge of the bed for a few minutes while I took her shoes off and attempted to lay her back down. She resisted, clearly not wanting to give in to the needed rest. I asked if she wanted her vest off, and she pushed me away.

Dignity. She had put the effort into dressing for this new day and wanted to stay that way, even if meant wearing the vest in bed.

For several moments, Mom just sat. I wondered if she wanted the wheelchair again, but she stubbornly refused my attempt to lift her.

“Mom, do you want to take some pictures?”

She smiled. The muscles in her face weren’t working as they should, so the smile took effort, but she forced it, and it appeared.

“Smile, Mom!” I said it over and over as I snapped a few pictures with my phone. I have no doubt that mom enjoyed that hour as much as I did as we momentarily pushed aside the effects of the disease. I imagine that for those several minutes mom was happy even in the midst of her pain.

Smile, Mom! And she did.

Joy and sorrow are intermingled for every believer in Jesus Christ. We live in a broken world that provides us with good reason to weep and deeply grieve, but the nights of crying your eyes out give way to days of laughter (Psalm 30). How is this possible? Because we can humbly submit, with gratitude, to our good and gracious God and know with certainty that He holds us in His sovereign hands. Our God is working in ways beyond our comprehension for our good and for His glory (Romans 8:28)

In this we have hope, brothers and sisters. Jesus has given us hope. It’s this hope that allows us moments of laughter amid uncertainty. It’s this hope that provides joy when we are anxious. It’s this hope that gives us assurance because Jesus defeated death. And it’s this hope that causes moments of smiling in the midst of suffering.

Smile, believer. Weeping may tarry for the night, but joy will come in the morning.