The Joy of the Lord Is My Strength

"Do not grieve, for the joy of the Lord is your strength"

I woke up two minutes before my alarm with a phrase echoing through my spirit:

The joy of the Lord is my strength.

I had actually woken up an hour earlier and, because I’m really trying to protect my sleep these days, I rolled back over without grabbing my phone — yay me. Somewhere between drifting back to slumber and waking, I had an incredibly vivid dream. It felt less like imagination and more like instruction. Like the Lord wasn’t just reminding me of that verse — He was showing me what it means.

In my dream, a woman from church — Veronica — was walking into worship practice with her little girl. The child was in the middle of a full-blown emotionally dysregulated meltdown, instantly recognizable to a mom with a kid on the autism spectrum. Veronica was calm, steady, gently but firmly guiding her child toward the back room where the choir was already singing.

I could see the weariness around her eyes. The kind of exhaustion that settles deep in a mother’s body after too many hard mornings.

They entered a room already filled with praise and worship, and something began to shift.

The music didn’t fix everything. It didn’t erase the struggle or undo whatever had triggered the girl's meltdown. But slowly, almost imperceptibly, the little girl began to soften, as though a wave of invisible peace had washed over her. Her breathing slowed. Her body calmed. And as her daughter settled, so did Veronica.

The atmosphere changed.

And that’s when it clicked for me.

My own home bore evidence of a storm from a few days ago. There is still a hole in my wall from a meltdown so intense it rattled all of us. Nothing about this journey is polished. Nothing about it is tidy. I often say the official dance of autism is two steps forward, one step back.

But after things had settled, I heard my son in his room. Worship music was playing softly. And he was singing along.

His tone was lighter. His body was calmer. His spirit felt steady again.

And in that moment, I understood something I had never fully grasped before:

Seeing the joy of the Lord in my child became the strength I needed.

Not because everything was resolved. Not because the hard feelings disappeared. Not because the wall repaired itself. (Wouldn't that be a miracle!?)

But because I saw God at work, joyfully beaming through my child — and that singular sight gave me hope.

Nehemiah 8:10 says, “Do not grieve, for the joy of the Lord is your strength.”

When those words were spoken, the people weren’t celebrating. They were weeping. They had just heard the Law read aloud and were overwhelmed by how far they had fallen. Their circumstances weren’t fixed. Their losses weren’t undone. And yet God told them not to remain in grief, because His joy would sustain them.

I don’t believe He meant a surface-level happiness tied to fleeting circumstances. I believe He meant the deep, steady joy that flows from His presence — the assurance that He is near, even in homes where the walls show signs of battle. The kind of joy that fills a room when worship rises. The kind that reminds us that no meltdown, no diagnosis, no weary morning has the final word.

Sometimes that joy strengthens us directly.

And sometimes, when we are paying attention, we see it reflected back through our children — in their singing, in their softening, in their return to peace.

And when I see my son worship after a storm, I am reminded that God is actively at work in him.

That reminder is strength for my weary heart — and maybe yours too.

If your house feels loud… if your patience feels thin… if your walls quietly testify to the battles you’ve faced…

Turn on the worship. Let heaven’s sound flood the room.

You may not see everything fixed. But you might just witness the joy of the Lord rise in your child — and in that sacred moment, you will find the strength you need for today.