Joy Cometh in the Morning

INTRODUCTION

With sudden and frequent flashbacks, she relived the past nine months—dark days, restless nights, grief and loneliness. Mary had never felt lonelier, even though Oliver was there holding her hand, soothing her with words of comfort—just as he had with their other babies’ births. Beads of perspiration dotted Mary’s forehead and upper lip. Her throat was parched.

Through the night her pains had been heavy, constant. The directive, “Push!” Her body responded and now she lay limp. Exhausted. Her night of labor had come to an end.

When Mary Monica Brown Postle gave birth to a baby girl on January 20, 1896, her whole being was caught up in a raging whirlpool of conflicting emotions. She had borne five children before this one, and her previous deliveries had been routine. For Mary, childbirth held no fear. She happily anticipated a home filled with little ones. Early in their courting days, she and Oliver shared a mutual desire to have a large, close-knit family. Both took to parenting as naturally and as lovingly as though it were their only occupation.

The closing years of the nineteenth century were, for the most part, uncomplicated and focused around the family unit. Mothers, no matter what their economic or cultural station, devoted most of their waking hours to childcare and homemaking. A woman rarely had energy left over after fulfilling her duties and responsibilities, but Mary adored her children and lavished attention and creative ideas on them, reading to them, challenging them to learn, and most of all, enjoying them.

Then, diphtheria’s stealth robbed Oliver and Mary’s precious and secure nest with astounding finality. Both deaths had occurred in rapid succession during Mary’s sixth pregnancy. The seared imprint on a young mother’s heart—the fresh loss of two precious children—altered the anticipation of her sixth child.

Even before the tragedy, family members believed Mary’s hands were full with two children spaced so close together and another one on the way—her being so near the change of life.

There were murmurings by her doctor, “Perhaps steps should be taken to try to terminate this pregnancy. It’s risky, of course, but not unheard of—there are things one could do.”

Mary’s anger flashed at the mere mention. Meddlesome kinfolks were not welcome to cross her threshold.

It seemed a bittersweet fate that Mary would cradle a new life in her arms while mourning her other babies. Everyone, it seemed, was concerned for her state of mind. How many more tears could she shed and still hang on to her sanity?

Until the final push, Mary was still in turmoil, and then suddenly amidst her prayers, the emotional struggle dispelled. Mary bravely set her face to the future and accepted the present with hope. She remembered a special Scripture, memorized many years before. When the happy tears of childbirth subsided, she recited the Old Testament promise, “Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning,” (Psalm 30:5, KJV).

This beautiful baby girl, Joy! The resurrection of a wounded spirit. A new dawn of healing. A new birth. Blessed Joy. Oh, what JOY! This is Katherine Joy Postle’s story and—her destiny.