Last weekend was a crazy mess of rain and wind.
Today, the sun came out. Quite an event on the northwest Coast. Every time it happens, I marvel at the brightness.
There’s something about the morning light.
Twenty-six years ago, I went into labor for the first time.
By late afternoon, the contractions all bunched into one big pain.
Don’t scream or cry out,” the day nurse told me just before she went off shift, “The night nurse served in Vietnam. If you scream she’ll slap your face.”
By midnight, the pain was so bad I could hardly breathe. But, I didn’t make a sound.
To my surprise, this combat-savvy nurse commended me on my endurance. She had no idea that I feared the back of her hand more than the agony of childbirth.
The morning light brought surgery and a baby boy.
Funny, one look at his wrinkled little face and all I felt was happiness.
“Weeping may remain for the night,” penned the author of Psalms 30, “but rejoicing comes in the morning”.
It makes sense as long as you know how to measure night and day according to loss.
Sometimes the night is just a night. Sometimes it’s a long, long time.
When I was in my late twenties, I got a call that woke me out of a deep sleep.
“You’re dad’s having a heart attack,” mom said quickly.
My sister and I followed the ambulance to the hospital. The darkness blotted out everything but the excruciating pain of the moment. When we got to the hospital the doctors had already pronounced Dad dead.
It was a long time before I saw the sun again.
Overwhelmed with sorrow, I felt betrayed.
I didn’t understand that
- sorrow is tough.
- sorrow is patient.
Sorrow settles in for the long haul. It stays until the job is done.
- the cleansing of our anger
- the acceptance of our loss.
One day, a ray of light danced across my face.
A bit of warmth touched my skin.
It felt good.