Rejoice (7 months)

Last week this old-school song popped into my head: “I love you Lord, and I lift my voice, to worship you, oh my soul rejoice.”

I got stuck on the word rejoice. Rejoice. What does that look like? What does that even mean? How do I find joy, how do I rejoice in the midst of grief?

And then I remembered my mom. I remembered her sitting in church, on the few times she was able be at church. I remember her being dressed up like she always was on Sundays, in her nice slacks, a fancy sweater and some flats (her everyday wardrobe after the stroke was yoga pants, a stretchy shirt and tennis shoes). I remember her sitting in her wheelchair, listening as announcements were given and the sermon was preached.

But mostly I remember her every time we sang a worship song, because every time she’d close her eyes, lift up her chin a little bit, and hum along with the song. She couldn’t read, so she didn’t know the words, and even if she knew the words by heart she probably wouldn’t have been able to say them out loud. So instead she just closed her eyes and hummed, immersed in the music and with a face of pure joy.

She looked so innocent when she did this, so whole, though she was still so physically broken. Even though she couldn’t praise God in worship songs like she used to, she found another way to rejoice.

If my mom can rejoice, without words and with little cause, maybe I can too. I might not be able to replicate the child-like innocence thing, but I can still hum.

It’s been seven months today since she died. And for whatever reason reflecting on joy just felt right. I’m not very joyful yet, but I’m trying to be, and the seventh month mark is as good a time as any to start trying.