Faithful Paradox

I awoke with a song in my head this morning that we sang at church yesterday. It was a rendition of “Joy to the World” with a chorus that says, “Joy, unspeakable joy. It rises in my soul, never lets me go.” It feels ironic that as I type those words, as they stream through my head, tears also fall down my cheeks.

I awoke with memories of Ezra running through my mind this morning. Three years ago tonight, we took our boys to dinner in Denver as Vince and I performed the biweekly “changing of the guard” at the hospital. We had tickets to see “The Lion King” at Denver Center for the Performing Arts, but due to a resurgence in Covid-19, the show was cancelled.

In all honesty, I was relieved it was cancelled. I had purchased the tickets as a Christmas gift for the boys in 2019. It was going to be their first Broadway show but it kept getting pushed back due to the pandemic. Ezra was in the hospital in December 2021, having just endured a bone marrow transplant. The thought of going to the show without him felt wrong, but there was also the complicated piece of life that we had 4 other boys in whom we wanted to delight and create memories. It felt so hard to know what it was to keep seeking out delight for our boys when our hearts were broken. When the show was cancelled, we promised the boys we would find some other fun in lieu of the show, which ended up being dinner in Denver, standing on a bridge that overlooked the highway, spitting on cars as they rushed underneath, and then walking to Little Man for ice cream.

That Christmas Eve one of our boys awoke with Covid-19 for the first time. Christmas Day consisted of Vince and the boys enduring a day together while I was with Ezra at the hospital. Part of the procedural policies for a bone marrow transplant required Ezra to remain in his room for the duration of his treatment. He had not been out of his room for almost a month by the time Christmas arrived. One of the doctors graciously gave him the gift of allowing him to go outside for 20 minutes on Christmas Day. I remember he sat outside in the sun and cried. It was so delightful for him to break free from from the prison of his room, even for 20 minutes.

That night, I awoke terribly sick. I snuck out of the room at 2:00 in the morning, trying to quickly distance myself from Ezra, drove home, also sick with Covid-19. Because of sickness in our family, we didn’t get to celebrate Christmas as a family until the second week in January. Ezra was not supposed to be more than 15 minutes away from the hospital, but Vince and Ezra snuck away and came home for a couple of hours. We all wore masks in the house. We went through the motions of celebration, but really, it was just that; going through the motions.

That was our last Christmas together. It was wrought with disappointment, sickness and waiting. Joy, unspeakable joy. It rises in my soul, never lets me go… It felt like joy let us go that year, and again every year since we lost Ezra. It doesn’t feel like joy rises in my soul any longer. Life feels more dulled; more subdued. There is a shadow over life that never lifts anymore.

It’s hard today to reconcile joy. Joy feels much like our last Christmas together; going through the motions. It’s a discipline, knowing that I ought to fight, but my heart is not in it. My mind keeps flashing back to these memories. Aches so deep they take my breath away. It’s hard to feel any emotion today other than grief and sadness; disappointment once again that Ezra’s story played out as it did, sadness that our last Christmas together was what it was. Joy feels hard. It’s overshadowed by sorrow. It’s hidden under painful memories.

But then I am reminded of Ezra, outside for only 20 minutes on Christmas Day, crying in gratitude to feel the sun on his face. I can see the green bench he sat on. We watched the wind mobile dancing in the breeze. We thanked God for the gift of the merciful doctor who let him escape his room for those brief 20 minutes.

Rick Warren says that “Joy is the determined choice to praise God in every situation.”  It’s not a feeling or a moment. It’s a determined choice. Today, that determined choice feels hard. I’d rather wallow. I’d rather simmer in the disappointment of all that was not, rather than choose to look towards what will be. If I’m honest, it’s easier to wallow and I’m weary of determination.

But my mind is drawn once again to Ezra. He rarely, if ever wallowed. He could have been frustrated that he only got 20 minutes that day. He could have been angry that his bone marrow transplant left him hospitalized over Christmas. But instead, he cried in gratitude for 20 minutes of sunshine. He was determined to be grateful. He was determined to fight and keep fighting. His life was one of joy and determination. He sat in the sun and cried in gratitude on Christmas Day. As the song says, joy never let him go, yet it was also married to his determined choice to praise God.

I learned a lot from my son as I watched him lose his battle with cancer. I learned a lot about joy from him. I watched him choose to praise God over and over, despite his circumstances. I watched him find a smile, even as he suffered. I watched him fight for joy. As I consider his life, as I struggle against my own wallowing, I find I admire him all the more as I remember his battle for joy. He determined to praise God. So today, I will do the same. Even as tears breach the dam of my eyes, today, I want to be like my son. I will not wallow, even though that feels right, fitting, permissible, reasonable and good. My hope is that maybe the discipline will cause the joy, unspeakable joy, to rise in my soul.

Warren goes on to say that, “Joy is the settled assurance that God is in control of all the details of my life, the quiet confidence that ultimately everything is going to be alright.” Maybe that’s what joy is all about anyway. It’s not that everything is alright today… but it will be. One day, it’s all going to be okay. Because of Jesus, one day, it will all make sense. One day joy will be full, complete, all day, every day, all encompassing. It will no longer require determination. It will no longer be a discipline or choice. It will simply be joy; unstoppable, unbreakable, unspeakable. Today, it’s a choice, but it won’t always be. I’m thankful for this. I’m thankful for the lessons about joy that I learned from my son. I’m thankful that today, his joy is complete. He’s with Jesus and his joy is unspeakable.