When this image of me and my daughter came up on my Timehop from two years ago, my mind and my heart were instantly reminded of the weight of those first nights, those really hard nights. Psalm 30:5 says, “weeping may stay for the night, but rejoicing comes in the morning.” Publicly many people saw the rejoicing that came in the morning, but few saw the mourning that came in the nights.

Each day from the time when Bubba was in the hospital to the months following his passing was filled with countless phone calls, texts, visits, and decisions that needed to be made on top of normal daily tasks and taking care of and playing with two young kids and answering their questions. I could almost guarantee when they would ask their big deep questions about Bubbas death, 1) in the car and 2) when I was tucking them in. By the time I was tucking them in I was beyond emotionally and physically exhausted. And then they’d ask questions I didn’t have the answer to, that I’d never have the answer to, questions I was wondering myself. For months, I’d just sit in the hall between their rooms while they fell asleep so they’d know I was there. I’d grab a pillow from the couch, plop it on the ground, slink to the floor and weep. Finally. For a moment. No visitors to entertain or make small talk with. No family to update. No friends to process with. No kids to answer, except when they inevitably came back out for one more hug or kiss. When I no longer had the check list and busyness to hide behind. In those moments, on those nights, I wept. Each night I went to my bed, alone for the first time in nearly a decade, and wept. Or I sat on a couch with friends, and wept.

I sometimes wonder if people think that because I don’t cry in public that I don’t cry or that I try to fake that I’m fine. Neither is true. I simply feel as if I can’t cry publicly, not that I’m not allowed, or need permission or pity, but as if I have the physical inability to. As if I have a cry valve that’s stuck, that won’t release (more on that in another post). Maybe it’s difficulty being vulnerable, maybe it’s not wanting to worry or burden others, maybe it’s pride…maybe it’s Dave (the guy in my mind in charge of the cry valve, seriously more on him later), or maybe it’s simply just wanting privacy and intimacy for such feelings.

There’s been so much to rejoice about AND so much to weep about. One doesn’t negate the other nor does one outweigh the other. Rejoicing comes from our weeping. We feel such sadness because what we had brought us such joy. Know that whether you’re weeping is loud, constant, through out the day, or if it’s subtle, if it builds up like a dam all day and you release it at night…your weeping matters. It’s healing. It’s valid. And you’re not alone. In the lonely, quiet moonlit halls. You’re not alone. And though it endures through the night, joy is coming too 🤍