Hebrew word: rinnah (רִנָּה)

My middle name is Joy. I have “Choose Joy” tattooed on my forearm to remind me that it’s a daily choice, not a feeling. I just made a sign for my newly painted kitchen that reads “Joy comes in the morning” from Psalm 30. Joy is an ongoing theme in my life. It’s presence and it’s absence. Maybe because it’s my middle name or maybe that has nothing to do with it…I don’t know. Either way, I decided to look at the original Hebrew word last week and what I discovered was profound and worth sharing.

Hebrew word: rinnah (רִנָּה).

It means joy — but not the quiet kind. It's a cry. A shout. The kind of sound that's been building for a long time before it finally gets out.

Some scholars trace it to a Semitic root describing the twang of a bowstring the moment an arrow is released. Which makes sense, when you think about it. That sound only exists because of everything that came before it. The pulling back. The holding.           

Psalm 30:5 puts it this way: weeping may stay for the night, but joy comes in the morning.

And a lot of families we walk alongside know that night well. We certainly do.

The silence of reaching out and not being heard — or worse, being accused when you were only ever trying to keep everyone safe. The exhaustion of carrying something heavy while life keeps moving around you. The particular loneliness of a struggle no one can quite see. The waiting and the fear — the kind that settles into your bones, that makes you afraid to speak up at all — can feel like it has no end.

But morning comes.

Not always on our timeline. Not always the way we expected. But it comes — and when it does, it doesn't always arrive softly. Sometimes joy breaks through. Sometimes it sounds like a shout after a long silence. A breath finally let go. A weight finally shared.

That's rinnah. Not just happiness — relief. The exhale after the tension. The moment your voice isn't the only one in the room. When you finally see the way forward.

Our post adoption journey is ongoing, but we have had several rinnah moments along the way. Moments when morning came and we could finally exhale. When safety was finally an option. When healing seemed possible.

We witnessed a plethora of rinnah moments during a conference hosted by RAD Advocates. It was undeniable as we sat in the room with 130 other families at NavRAD 2026. We could see it. Hear it. Feel it. Everyone could. That is powerful.

And that's what Salvo is here for. To sit with families in the night seasons. To help them feel seen and heard. To financially connect them with support so that morning can come for them, too.

Because weeping may last through the night.

But joy — real, loud, long-overdue joy — comes in the morning. 



Salvo. Rinnah. 

Every family deserves to find it.