Joy Comes in the Morning

The audacity of hope in the face of darkness

Today would have been my grandmother Lore Jarmul’s 100th birthday. Tonight, for the second time in American history, a major party will nominate a woman to be President of the United States. My grandmother fought for freedom, for women, for racial equality, for opportunity for everyone for her whole life. That is part of the reason my daughter, along with three of her cousins, has her as a namesake. And at this moment, I can't imagine something that would have given her more joy on her centennial than seeing Kamala Harris be on center stage tonight, becoming the Democratic nominee for President.

Me with my grandmother at my college graduation

We left the hospital with E--our beloved IVF baby, who I couldn't trust would ever come to be until I held her in my arms--at noon on January 20th, 2021. The reason we didn't leave earlier was because all of the support staff at the hospital were watching Kamala Harris be sworn in as the first female, first Black, and first Asian Vice President of the United States. That moment, of Harris taking her oath of office, was the first thing E ever saw on a screen. Harris is not a perfect candidate, and she might not be who I would have chosen if I could have chosen anyone, but I am certain that I will cry when she speaks tonight, and all I can hope--and try to make happen--is that the first president that that little baby, who is growing up so fast, becomes conscious of, as she gets older, will be a woman. And then she'll know what her GG, her namesake, knew to be true, even if she did not live to see it come to be—that women can be anything, and she can be too.

Last night, when Hakeem Jeffries spoke at the DNC, he quoted part of one of my favorite pesukim, from Tehillim 30:6--בָּ֭עֶרֶב יָלִ֥ין בֶּ֗כִי וְלַבֹּ֥קֶר רִנָּֽה. "In the evening one may lie down weeping, but joy comes in the morning." We are in the evening right now, and there have been so many tears every time we lie down. Those tears, that darkness, are for America, for Israel, for Palestinians, for Jews, for Muslims, for women, for people of color, for individuals and for communities. And yet, as I became a mother to another miraculous, perfect, longed-for baby during another election cycle, I have to believe that joy will come, because choosing (choosing!) to bring children into the world is fundamentally an act of hope. The thing about joy, though, is it does not always just appear. Instead, sometimes, we have to create it. We have to work to bring the world from darkness to light.

Both of our children have a Hebrew middle name that is derived from the root רנן, joy, the same one that appears in the pasuk that Jeffries cited. We chose this name for our babies because they were both born in times of communal darkness--E during Covid, and baby R in the aftermath of October 7th--and after so much loss for us. But they are here. We are the lucky ones. For us, joy came in the morning. And may it be so for our country, and for the world.