This verse was stuck in my head today, the words in English and accompanied by electric guitar, clearly some mostly forgotten vestige of my childhood.
I look it up. Psalm 30. Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning.
My son rises with the sun. Every morning I hear him push aside the blinds to look out the window, to the view of the river and the tree-lined hills beyond, to the east.
“Mama, look, the sun came up!” he exclaims. “Now we can get up. It’s not too early.”
Now that we have nowhere to be, our mornings are slower, and the two of us often bask in the rising sun, the dazzling colors, the golden sunlight that hits our living room just right and envelopes us in its glow, our golden hour, as we sit in the oversized chair and chat or read or make up stories, the blanket in our lap or over our heads, the sunlight sneaking through the knitting. Sometimes it’s just the two of us. Other times I hold both of my children in my lap and rejoice in these simple, quiet moments.
Oh, how I don’t want to be sad. How I want only to enjoy them and this fleeting time together.
We found out today that my daughter has cataracts. Another set of surgeries and endless eye drops. Another lifetime of management. I’m sorry, I tell her, as she sleeps on my chest. Oh G-d, how I am sorry.
My son loves to talk about the sun rising and setting. We watch the sky change over dinner, from our window facing east. I start singing the song from Fiddler on the Roof, but I don’t really know the words. So we play a recording.
Swiftly fly the years.
One season following another,
laden with joy and tears.
I don’t want to be sad. I missed so much of my son’s infancy to fear and sadness. I just want to enjoy my children as they are, today.
Psalm 30. Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning.
Let us know the joy.