I gently placed my newborn son, Noah, in his crib for a nap. He looked so peaceful, serene. Not me. As I turned away, I wiped the tears from my eyes. I’d been crying a lot lately. “Baby blues,” my mother called it. I felt guilty for feeling so depressed. My husband, Dan and I struggled for years with infertility—Noah was a dream come true. So why couldn’t I be happy?
“Honey, maybe you should take a nap too,” Dan suggested when I walked out of Noah’s room. A nap?! Yeah, right, I thought. Dirty dishes were piled up in the sink, the laundry was overflowing, baby gifts and unwritten thank you notes were stacked around the house. I was experiencing insomnia and hadn’t slept for days. It seemed all I accomplished was nursing and changing Noah. Even if I were able to fall asleep, I’d just be woken up by Noah’s cries for hunger.
I went to my bedroom, collapsed onto my bed and sobbed. “Lord!” I cried. “Please show me the joy in being a new mom. I’m just not getting it.”
Immediately, an urge came over me: Read Psalm 113. I pulled out my Bible from the nightstand and opened it up to the nine-verse Psalm. “The Lord is exalted over all the nations, his glory above the heavens…” It was a nice passage, but I didn’t feel like it had to do with me. I was about to stop reading and bury myself in the sheets.
Then, my eyes fixed on the final verse: “He gives the barren woman a home, making her the joyous mother of children.”
Barren, I once was. But not anymore. And that was cause for joy.
