What compels us to snuff out our own joy?
True, it seems I am merely escaping an argument over whose pencil was actually under the table, a game of hide and seek gone horribly wrong, a stack of lunch dishes, laundry and mail, to fall into bed and pillows and quiet. But it is the answer to that question that I pursue behind this closed door.
I need to know. I ache.
For forty days, preparing this heart to observe Good Friday, I’ve watched this tongue, the tail of the heart. Purposed that the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be pleasing in His sight. Listened to this heart howl, heard it as it learned, haltingly, to lament. Switched bracelet from one wrist to the other as this heart tail failed to wag joy, tell-tale tracking of a heart’s path.
There have been days, remarkably, yes, where I’ve reached out to reshelf a book, grab a ladle, and stopped short. Why is bracelet still on this wrist? Glance at the clock.
“Have I really not complained or spoken harshly today?” I dubiously ask self and any listening ear in close proximity.
Silence.
Six young minds replay the last six hours.
And then a little voice, cautiously, “No, I don’t think you have, Mom.”
Small miracles shattering through ordinary time. Joy clasped, inhaled.
But there have been many days, sadly, where I live trapped beneath the surface and can’t break through. I drown in frustration, spew and flail in irritation.
“Hurry up! We’re late already!”
“Enough, boys! Get your work finished!”
“You call this room clean?”
I fail to crack this icy heart and push up into joy’s fresh air. Edgy words, tight tone, sad sighs, tongue sharp. My lungs hurt, desperate.
But isn’t joy always mine? My daily luxury, my strength in Him. A light that warms, joy rests in one’s open palm. Steady, sure. I alone can snuff it out, no one else. Fingers flying back towards me, my way, squash out joy. Fist and fits of selfishness terminate joy’s oxygen. No one makes the ice that traps me, keeps me from air, but me.
Peering out my window, I search the heavens with the cry: But why would I think that wise, helpful? What compels me to deprive myself of joy’s oxygen?
The swiftness and starkness of the answer startles me: Because you believe in the power of the dark, frigid waters.
I catch the thought, hold it to the light, examining its truth. Do I snuff out joy’s light because I believe that anger will achieve more than love? Do I snap open palm close, extinguishing happy light, persuaded that black fisted complaining, exasperation, resentment will pound me up into the life I seek?
And then, in a whisper, cutting me wide open: Do I really think Satan’s way to be more powerful, more practically useful in my daily life, than Jesus’ way?
I shudder. And yet, when I choose to smother joy’s light—and it is a choice--- am I not purposefully choosing to take the way of the Prince of Darkness? Because somewhere inside lurks the notion that his way proves more effective, convincing, formidable.
Grappling, I look up. At the top of the window, at the eave, an icicle, glassy thick, dangles from roof’s edge. In the afternoon warmth, sunlight shimmers through icicle wet thawing, falling. I watch the slow drip. And it comes, Aesop’s fable of the sun winning over man clutching coat, defeating the biting wind.
Light achieves what dark cannot.
And doesn’t Jesus’ joy, strength radiating, soften, warm, what the Prince of Darkness’ anger is impotent to do?
Ice melts and these lungs fill with air.
Father, remind me when I choose anger over joy, who I really am choosing. Instead of You.
Related:
Light Keeper
Heart Tail
Learn to Lament
Dare to be Wholly His and Happy
Joy Luxury
A Word to live..and die.. by
My Happy Light, Pt 1 ... Happy Light, Pt 2
Count Joy
Let the Words of my Mouth
