Joy, Meet Relief
Can you hear it in their voices?
Once you cut through the baffled wonder and divide the nagging disbelief and set aside the stuttering astonishment, there it is: relief.
He is risen. He is risen? He is risen! It’s not a matter of simple punctuation. There are a thousand reactions to surprising news, and the Gospels cover nearly every one. Mary thinks she’s talking to the gardener. John and Peter race each other to the tomb. Thomas can’t believe his eyes.
But by the end of each of their stories, there is always a category shift.
The turn to joy.
. . .
Happiness is often distinguished from joy. One is fleeting; the other is lasting. One is surface; the other is depth.
But here’s a difference I hadn’t noticed until this Easter.
Until I nursed the baby in the wee grey hours of Sunday morning, the baby who had slept all night, finally, blessedly, miraculously slept all night after months of terrible waking. Until my only thought as my whole self relaxed to let him feed was relief.
And then I remembered how joy can come from relief.
It is not exactly happiness, because we are so worn out that we cannot smile easy. And we are changed by what we have been through, wrung from worry and exhausted from fear. But we still feel this deeper exhale, this turning back toward trust, this unspoken knowledge that we will carry with us a wider, wiser, richer understanding because of the dark slog we have trudged through.
A loved one waits for test results. All signs point to the worst. Then the doctor calls to say, “All clear.”
We sit stunned. We exchange glances, barely believing. Then we start to let down toward joy.
The joy that knows this could have ended a thousand different ways, all of them terribly. Yet it didn’t.
The joy that embraces not only a good ending, but a new beginning.
. . .
Each time I birthed my babies, I felt this joy-from-relief, overwhelmed in those spinning moments after delivery, surging with intensity that words fail to capture, a swirl of pain and exhilaration, delight and delirium, disbelief and astonishment. And always joy.
Knowing this moment could have ended a thousand different ways, so many of them badly. Knowing the stories of strangers and friends for whom death met birth in heart-breaking ways.
But then realizing with my own heart, seeing with my own eyes, whispering to my stunned self, that it wasn’t. That we were here and safe and okay.
Deep joy pulsed in each of those delivery rooms, bustling with nurses I barely saw and bright lights that paled around me while I watched a brand-new face blink open to a new world.
I wonder if Easter morning was like this, too.
Running from an empty tomb, scrambling to tell someone else, racing to see a body gone, feeling that heart-racing thump of no, no way, really, yes is this real, can this be? Desperate dreams and wildest prayers and all of them answered—he is not here! he is alive?—but not in ways any of them could have imagined in a million years.
His friends knew the joy that comes from relief. From knowing it could have, should have, would have been so different. Yet here they are. Life is categorically changed, and they are reeling from deepest joy.
Two thousand years later and we are still puzzling to parse out the meaning of that day. I still don’t understand this—the turning inside out of everything that makes sense, the upheaval of existence itself, the strange promise that a shadow of the same waits for each of us.
I do not understand it but I believe it in my bones, and every time I feel my body release into the joy that flows from relief, I wonder if we all know what it means to witness resurrection.
To sink into a possibility that you never dared to let yourself imagine, and to discover that it was exactly what you hoped all along.