“Okay, Mama, one more big push and baby will be here!”

I breathed deep as pain wrapped around my abdomen, compressing my uterus like a wrung-out wash cloth. With a guttural cry, I pushed with all my strength through the excruciating ring of fire, knowing greater intensity meant imminent relief. Labor pains meant joy was just on the horizon.

With a whoosh and gush of fluid, her body swept from mine, and pain’s absence was instantaneous. The world’s sweetest sound filled the room—the tiny but mighty cry of a newborn.

Joy, pure and unadulterated (some of the most profound I’ve ever felt), surged as the doctor placed her on my chest. It is perhaps one of life’s best experiences. I’ve had the privilege of that miracle moment four times, and each occasion was just as amazing.

“You’re glowing,” my husband remarked minutes later. It didn’t matter that there were still small contractions pushing the placenta down and out. The pain faded to the background against the joy of new life, quiet now, nestled close to my chin.

The births of my children rank right at the top of my most joy-filled days, brimming with our culture’s quintessential understanding of joy—a quality of gladness, happiness, and rejoicing in the good gifts of God. They were certainly some of the happiest days of my life as well, days where joy and happiness coincided perfectly.

But joy and happiness don’t always coexist.

I’ve heard preachers say joy is deeper than happiness, not based on fleeting circumstances. But if joy is separate from happiness, what does joy look like when you are not happy? Is it even possible?

Years earlier, I stood at the front of a church, surrounded by flowers and pictures, greeting folks with tear-filled eyes. I wore a dress more fitting for spring breezes than thirty degrees, but I had to have colors. Jon would have wanted me in colors, not black. Shared grief was palpable, the hugs fierce and intense. Later, I spoke during the service, pausing several times to push down a sob so I could continue. We sang Jon’s favorite song, “All I have is Christ.” Weeping with trembling hands raised, I had never sung it so broken, but I’d also never sung it so honestly.

Joy didn’t radiate. It wasn’t laughing or giddy. But it was there amid the weeping, with trembling, open hands. It was there in the active stance of surrender.

Oh, dear ones, joy comes in colors. It’s made up of varieties and shades. How stunning and freeing that notion is! The Bible uses multiple root words with rich connotations that go far beyond our English understanding of joy. Sometimes joy is exultant. “They received their food with glad and generous hearts, praising God” (Acts 2:46–47). Christians praise God with joy and gladness because of who God is and what he has done. In other places, joy more closely means to take heart, have courage, be strengthened (Acts 27:22,25).

Digging deeper, we also find that joy means to boast (in God on account of Jesus’s death and resurrection), to be blessed or happy, or to have inward contentment. In fact, the most used meaning of the word in the New Testament refers to inward contentment (Morrice, New Dictionary of Theology). Sometimes joy is quiet, more akin to peace.

Joy is not simply an emotional response based on circumstances; it is indeed a richer and deeper quality than happiness alone. Joy is a gift of the Holy Spirit flowing from God’s love, listed among the fruit of the Spirit.

Joy is not merely the extrovert with the bubbly personality who lights up a room. It’s not only found in those who raise their hands during worship. It’s in the shy and the bold, the quiet and the loud. Joy is not only in those who laugh, dance, and always have a smile on their faces—it can also be found in those who weep.

Joy might not always look like the radiant glow of a woman who just gave birth, or the giddy grins of a newly engaged couple. Most of life is not composed of euphoric moments, but the whole of life can be spent in joyful worship. Christians can “rejoice”—the action of joy—because God is our Father who forgives the repentant, who sent his son to redeem his own. We rejoice because Jesus died and rose again. We rejoice because he defeated Satan, sin, and death. Rejoicing actively recalls God’s past and present faithfulness with thankfulness, while keeping an eye toward eternity.

But if we’re honest, some days joy is an ebbing tide, elusive and slipping just out of reach. Some days it’s a battle. It doesn’t come naturally when happiness flees. So we act. We preach to ourselves. I heard Paul Tripp once say, “The person who listens to you the most is you. What are you preaching to you?”

As a child must practice tying his shoes or getting dressed, so must we practice putting on joy (Phil. 3:1). We have access to the Holy Spirit’s gifts because he dwells in us. Joy is right there waiting for us; we just need to take hold of it. We tell ourselves what is true, and often emotions follow. But even if they don’t, even if we still grieve or if happiness is sand in a sieve, we keep telling our emotions what we know is true. Our joy might be in a muted shade, but the Holy Spirit is working, and he can fill our hearts with settled confidence in him.

The apostle John writes of the fullness of joy or perfect joy (John 17:13; 1 John 1:4; Smalley, Dictionary of Biblical Theology). Our joy isn’t perfect now, though. We sin and disrupt our joy. We worry, fear, and panic. We forget who we are, and we demand our own way. But one day our joy will be complete, entire, without lack, and more abundant than we can fathom. No longer will sorrow mingle, and labor pains will fade against the joy of new life. In the presence of Jesus, joy will be perfect, perhaps still in its varying shades.