When Joy Comes in the Morning: Logan’s Story of Redemption and Renewal

Frank Wible
Oct 17
2 min read

He used to think rock bottom was just an expression. That was before the night his wife left and he found himself alone in a house that echoed with reminders of everything he’d lost. The pictures on the wall, the ring-shaped marks where her candles used to sit, the silence that came after years of noise.

Sometimes the night feels endless, but God is already preparing the dawn.

He sat on the couch for hours that night, staring at the dark TV screen. It was the first time he’d ever felt the weight of his own choices. Pride, anger, selfishness, they all crowded in like ghosts that refused to leave.

He whispered, “God, I messed this up.” It wasn’t a formal prayer, more like a confession from a man too tired to pretend anymore.

Weeks turned into months. He went to work, came home, and repeated the pattern. But somewhere in the quiet, something began to change. He started reading again, not out of routine but out of desperation. The Bible on his nightstand, one his mother had given him years ago, became a companion.

Psalm 30:5 caught his eye one evening. He read it twice, then again. “Weeping may last through the night, but joy comes in the morning.” He wanted to believe it, but joy felt like a word that belonged to someone else.

Still, he kept reading. Each night, the words sank a little deeper. He began journaling small things he was thankful for, clean sheets, a call from a friend, a sunset that wasn’t special but felt like a small sign of life returning.

Months later, he woke up before dawn. The world outside was still dark, but there was a faint glow on the horizon. He poured a cup of coffee, sat by the window, and felt something unfamiliar, peace. Not perfection, not the old life he wanted back. Just peace.

Joy doesn’t shout—it rises gently with the light.

He thought about the verse again. The night had been long, but here it was, morning.

Joy didn’t rush in with trumpets. It came quietly, like light through a cracked door. He realized joy wasn’t the absence of pain, but the presence of hope.

He started volunteering at his church, helping other men who had gone through divorce or loss. His story became his ministry. He wasn’t proud of how he got there, but he was thankful for the God who met him in the ashes.

On the anniversary of the night his marriage ended, Logan wrote in his journal: “I thought God was done with me. Turns out, He was just getting started.”

The weeping had been real. The nights had been heavy. But joy came anyway.

He still carried scars, but they no longer stung. They became reminders of what God had healed. Logan wasn’t chasing happiness anymore, he was living in grace.

Some mornings he still wakes before sunrise, coffee in hand, looking out the same window where he once felt hopeless. Now he smiles, whispers a prayer, and watches light break through the sky.

What reminds you that joy always returns?