“Is it going to hurt?” It was a rhetorical question made in a desperate attempt to summon the courage to forge ahead and deliver my first born without an epidural. I knew the answer and didn’t necessarily want my doctor to actually lay the truth out on the table. I had a tiny glimmer of hope, or perhaps delirium, that she would say something calming like, “oh no, honey. I fully expect this to go differently than the hundreds of previous deliveries I’ve done. This one should pop right out without the slightest discomfort on your part.”

I was several hours into laboring with my son, heading swiftly for the home stretch of pushing.  I had received the miraculous relief of an epidural a few hours back and my labor pains had diminished enough that I actually dozed for a short time. I woke up to the pain of a contraction, and as each one came on, the intensity grew.  Seeing the level of distress on my face, my nurse checked the catheter in my back that was delivering the medication and found it had “migrated” into a blood vessel and filled with blood. No medication was getting through.

I’ll never forget the anesthesiologist coming into the room to explain the science behind my mounting pain.  I remember him leaning down right next to my ear to be sure I heard as another strong contraction took hold. “I don’t really care about catheters and migration right now buddy, so just keep your explanations to yourself and be on your way. If you can’t tell me something that takes aways this searing pain, I have no need or time for you.” Ok, so I didn’t actually voice these words, but I did somehow get my point across that I was ready for him to leave me to it.

Upon his exit, I quickly turned to my doctor for my options. She hesitantly told me I could receive another epidural, but it would slow things down significantly.  And that is when I asked the question. The overwhelming fear of delivering my son sans medication took hold and I guess I just felt like it was worth asking. “Will it hurt?” Mercifully, she didn’t answer the question directly, but instead offered what encouragement she could by assuring me that things would start to feel better once I started pushing. I would be in full control of my contractions, meaning I would feel them fully – intensely – with no medication between me and the knowledge that it was in fact time to push. Essentially what she was telling me was, “yes, it is going to hurt.  You are going to feel pain. But if you allow yourself to feel it, own it, and push through, you are promised new life.”

“Hold on my child, joy comes in the morning. Weeping only lasts for the night, the darkest hour means dawn is just in sight.”

We are all in a time of hurting.  From one end of the world to another, people are suffering, and suffering deeply. As each country scrambles to keep an accurate count of COVID-19 cases, keeping track of broken hearts and tears shed would certainly prove an impossible endeavor. For some, the pain is physical, a result of this virus that has taken hold of people’s bodies and minds in alarming ways. Million across the globe are gripped with hunger pains and have no paycheck coming in to fill the void. Many are drowning within the isolation; depression and anxiety sometimes more difficult to overcome than the devastating symptoms of the virus. Plans have been canceled or put on hold; bucket list trips, weddings, graduations; major life transitions just hanging in the balance, shrouded in uncertainty. Millions upon millions have lost their jobs and loose sleep each night wondering how they and their families will recover from all that has been lost. The truth of our smallness, our lack of control, is presently before us with surreal clarity. Not one of us can hide from the awareness that we do not own tomorrow. And, I don’t know about you, but from moment to moment, I find it difficult to fully absorb and appreciate the gift of today for all that it is.

It wouldn’t be unfair for any one of us to question where God is in all of this.  We are promised that He is owning our pain in a way we can’t humanly understand, shedding tears alongside us and carrying us when we cannot stand against the weight of fear. We can trust He is doing all He can to bring “joy in the morning” or, perhaps more appropriately, joy out of the mourning. To accept this promise, of course, involves risk; one we each need to choose whether or not to take.

These words are from the song, ‘Joy comes in the morning’, written by Bill Gaither. The last line speaks volumes to me about the surreal reality we find ourselves in. We’ve all given up so much of what we assumed we’d never have to live without. In doing so, we’ve been forced to reconcile the truth that these things we hold tight to are those we cannot keep. And we are left with the one thing we cannot lose, whether or not we choose to recognize it – God’s love, His presence and the promise that He can and will bring joy in the morning.

My doctor was right. Once I started pushing, I felt like I took control of the pain and used it for good. When our son was born, I literally held new life in my hands and the joy was indescribable. A little over a year earlier, we had lost our first baby to miscarriage and, for the first time in my blessed life of 23 years, I truly questioned how I would ever feel true joy again. I was angry and confused and, once pregnant again, was paralyzed with fear over what we could lose. His healthy arrival was a rebirth of sorts for my soul, a testament to the beauty of taking the risk to continue to trust in what I could not prove and let God bring joy out of our mourning.

This won’t last forever. There will be an end to the most dire aspects of this silent killer. There will surely be lasting sorrow, but the resilience of the human spirit, that of God within us, is sure to push through this pain. Those who have passed will receive their proper burials, and as the flowers upon their graves begin to bloom, it will become clear that their souls have been dancing in the freedom of peace since the moment they took their last earthly breath. Whispers of those lost will be heard in the return of laughter from those left behind. Home offices will transition back to kitchen tables and children will once again sit among their peers upon their return to school. Smiles will emerge from behind the masks and greetings of a firm handshake and a warm hug will mercifully return to the norm.

The sun will rise in the morning because the Son has risen and, if we are brave enough to push through the pains of the night and risk trusting in what the darkness tries to hide, our mourning will be bathed in the light of day. And there, we will find our joy.

(When I started thinking about this post, the words, “joy comes in the morning” kept coming to me and I vaguely remembered it to be a song. I looked it up and was incredibly inspired by the lyrics, but not so much by the recording. I asked my son if maybe he could “do a little something with it” and, God bless him, he and his band mate actually did! So very thankful to both of them for bringing these lyrics and message alive in such a beautiful way. Enjoy and, if so moved, I invite you to copy the link to the song and share on your social media, as I’d bet all our hearts could use a little uplifting right now.)