Mrs. Brown collected spiritual teachers like some people collect sports memorabilia or teacups. A faithful member of the True Vine Baptist Church, she also counted a rabbi among her friends, and she added me when I was her husband’s hospice chaplain. One day, out of the blue, she called my boss and told her that she had adopted me and that we would be friends for life. My boss cocked an eyebrow at this unusual behavior in the world of professional hospice care. But who was I – or she – to argue with Mrs. Brown? She said she was keeping me even after her husband died. She kept me in her life until she died.
But she was my spiritual teacher.
Mrs. Brown wouldn’t appear to have very much cause for joy. As a Black woman in racist America, as a plump woman in a world that loves skinny women, as a mother whose children were struggling, and as a woman who lived in poverty all her life, she had a wealth of stresses that left her slightly bent over. Her feet always hurt from standing behind a deli counter all day, helping people who were always in a hurry. When we met, her husband was dying, and she was doing her best to care for him in their apartment.
Following the example of Jesus and Mrs. Brown and countless other teachers of joy, we can teach ourselves to pay attention and wallow in all the joy we can find.
Her husband held his secrets close all his life and wasn’t about to share them with someone like me. But Mrs. Brown was ready to talk. Each time I climbed the broken steps to their apartment and sat on the tattered couch, she taught me something about joy.
Here are the lessons that stay with me.
Joy is tiny
The math is all wrong. Our painful life chapters are enormous. A child with a disability or contending with mental illness. The death of a beloved friend or partner.
The loss of our parents, through death or the inability to be parents. The work of getting sober. These hard seasons continue, while joy comes in small bursts.
Joy is episodic
Joy is the bright sunshine on the way to the funeral home. Joy is the clack of a puppy’s nails racing across the floor or the soft thump of a cat leaping down from its perch. Joy is the lift of a favorite song on the way to a tense work meeting. In my family, joy is the flash of a cardinal, the bird that reminds us of my brother, who died too young.
Mrs. Brown taught me to look for tiny flashes of joy.
Mrs. Brown taught me to look for tiny flashes of joy. She was delighted when the food pantry left free loaves of bread on the senior center table or someone tucked a $10 bill into an envelope for her. When a neighbor brought dinner over as a surprise, she saw it as a gift. She wasn’t blind to the systems that kept her poor; she chose to put her energy into appreciation.
Joy is episodic and yet also lasting
Meeting the eyes of the store clerk over the head of a problematic patron and giving a nod of recognition can make you smile all day. I’m currently driving a young friend to sports practice because his parents can’t do it, and watching him run to the field when he gets out of the car makes all the driving worthwhile. No matter how short, a great conversation’s wealth can fuel an entire day.
Joy doesn’t compare
Mrs. Brown received everything people offered with appreciation. She never thought about how it could have been different. The idea that someone could have sent more money, called ahead before bringing dinner, or visited more often never came out of her mouth. I couldn’t tell if the thoughts crossed her mind and she held them in or if she never allowed herself to think that way. She never looked at a gift and wished it could be different.
This was a valuable lesson for a middle-class White person with many choices. My mind is constantly comparing one thing to another.
Are the apples good at this grocery store, or should I go to another one? I like this bakery’s bread and the pies from that one. It’s hard to take in the wealth of gifts in my life when I’m constantly measuring them against something else. Mrs. Brown taught me about the pure focus of accepting what’s before me. What she didn’t say, and I learned along the way, is that living this way is much less stressful. It frees up a lot of mental space for other ideas. If she were still here to hear this, she would laugh and say, “Girl, what took you so long to learn that?”
Joy is separate from life circumstances
The world loves it when we think joy results from having shiny blonde hair, a physically fit outer appearance and a sexy car in the driveway. That white subway tile in the kitchen gets you a gold star, and barn chic is worth lots of likes on social media. That Instagram-worthy vacations give you bonus points. We all know we can’t purchase joy, yet we slip up when the perfect electronic equipment, new phone or face cream comes along. Maybe this new shiny thing will change our lives, we think for just long enough to hit the “buy now” button.
The world loves it when we think joy results from having shiny blonde hair, a physically fit outer appearance and a sexy car in the driveway.
In truth, nobody can buy joy.
We all need a certain amount of money to lift us out of worrying about maintaining our lives. We need enough money to eat, sleep safely and maintain our health. We need enough security to calm our nervous systems down. After that
level of security, joy is more about what’s inside than outside.
Benjamin Schaefer, the senior prose editor at Fairy Tale Review, recently wrote that he heard someone say in a 12-step meeting, “You can never get enough of something you do not need.” It will never be enough if it’s something to puff us up or make us look good to someone else. But joy — joy lasts.
Mrs. Brown managed to radiate her joy while her husband was dying and in the years afterward when she kept me in her life. She held her inner joy next to her grief and her pain about her family. One didn’t erase the other. She held them next to each other, fully living in both.
In one of the most challenging seasons of my own life, my then-teenaged daughter was hospitalized for depression. It was deeply frightening, but it brought a weird clarity to life. I had only one job: to visit her daily, take her clean clothes in a paper bag and enjoy the time with her for as long as we had. The focus fed a weird joy, like a flower creeping up through the cracks in the sidewalk.
Joy is a discipline
Whenever we seek joy, it’s happy to be found.
It has its own pulsing energy and wants to bubble into our lives. Every day holds the possibility of deep joy and wrenching sorrow. We get to decide where to focus our attention. Joy doesn’t erase our sorrow, but it’s a reliable companion.
Joy doesn’t erase our sorrow, but it’s a reliable companion.
After my daughter was in the psychiatric hospital, she graduated to a day program. The only one with openings was an hour away, and we took the open spot eagerly. The drives back and forth every morning and afternoon could have been a nuisance, and yet, when we paid attention, they held a curious joy. No other time would a teenager willingly spend two hours a day with their parents. Driving someone around and sitting parallel to each other always stimulates interesting conversations. The hours on the highway came to feel like a mystery gift, a bright, shining pulse of joy through the fear of those days.
Joy demands to be shared
When Mrs. Brown got two free loaves of bread from the food pantry, her first impulse was to think about who could use the second one. Could she give it, some cans of soup or half of a chicken to her neighbor? How about the older person from her church? How would she get it to them? As little as she had, she had no impulse to hold onto things. Everything that came into her life was fair game to pass on.
In the same way, she helped other people share what they had. When the True Vine Baptist Church needed money for new chairs, a roof or carpet, she always invited me to contribute. Never shy, she didn’t worry about bothering me with the request. She believed she was giving me an opportunity, inviting me to share my abundance. I saw it that way, too, and I was always honored to be part of her network of generosity.
Following Jesus and Mrs. Brown’s example, we can spend our days spreading delight, even when the world around us seeks to squash joy at every turn.
We’re in this Easter season because the joy of Jesus’ presence in people’s lives demanded to be shared. In the Gospels, any time someone has a life-changing encounter with Jesus, their next impulse is to tell someone. Even when Jesus instructs them not to say anything, the joy of their physical and mental release is too immense to contain. We’re all here because the people of the early church told others about the joy they found in following the pattern of Jesus’ life. The story of Jesus’ life was too compelling to hold in, and the joy people found kept bubbling out to more people. The example of Jesus and the stories people passed on about him opened a door for joy in people’s lives.
Easter is the season of joy for all of us who delight in the life and resurrection of Jesus. He is our teacher in many things, including the art of cultivating joy despite a life of oppression. He turned water to wine to preserve the joy of a wedding and accepted every dinner invitation he could. He ate all the food and drank all the wine, even when his host was rude or other guests put him on the spot. He didn’t let them erase the joy of abundant nourishment and a soft couch. I imagine he cultivated the same joyful atmosphere as he and his friends prepared to sleep at night by the side of the road or in a stray cousin’s drafty guest room. He created moments of delight for his disciples, like the safety of their last Passover feast, even while his own life was threatened. When we read his words, a lot of them are funny. Jesus invites us to laugh with him at the world’s absurdity, even while we work to improve it.
Following the example of Jesus and Mrs. Brown and countless other teachers of joy, we can teach ourselves to pay attention and wallow in all the joy we can find. Following Jesus and Mrs. Brown’s example, we can spend our days spreading delight, even when the world around us seeks to squash joy at every turn. This resurrection season invites us into a fullness of joy — may we all seize it, multiply it and share it.
Joy is episodic.
Joy is the bright sunshine on
the way to the funeral home.
Joy is the clack of a puppy’s nails racing across
the floor or the soft thump of a cat leaping down from its perch.
Joy is the lift of a favorite song on the way to a tense work meeting.
In my family, Joy is the flash of a cardinal, the bird that reminds us of my brother, who died too young.
