By: Jennifer Richardson Holt
This week has flown by, and there’s been a great deal going on. Not to mention, a topic wouldn’t come to me no matter how much random information I threw at myself, hoping something would spark a little creativity. I even came up with the idea to simply ask my daughter to give me a message she, as a 9-year-old girl, wanted the world (or at least as many people who read this) to know. After I gently steered her away from unicorns (again) and then dragons, she decided I should write about how valuable and important kids are—and how, if they were eliminated, the world would crumble into a million pieces (her words, not mine). I assured her that people understood the value of children and that no one was attempting to eliminate them. This satisfied her, and she quickly lost interest in supplying further subject matter.
So, here I sit typing an introduction—which sounds simple enough until you realize you don’t actually know what you’re introducing.
I told you this week has been fast-paced and busy, but looking back, I’m not even sure what all the busyness was. I suppose it was one of those weeks where the usual life tasks take up a lot of space, and the rest is filled in by not-particularly-memorable bits and bobs. It’s like a jar filled with a modest number of marbles. We’re aware of the larger pieces—laundry, dinners, baths—but somehow, like unanticipated grains of sand, all the tiny empty spaces get filled before you even realize it. You find yourself frazzled and worn out but can’t quite put your finger on why.
There are days when you just get sick of all the usual things that fill your schedule. It was only recently that I learned having these feelings doesn’t mean you’re a terrible person. Often, the things that take the most out of you are, interestingly enough, the very things you once longed for—maybe even prayed for. A spouse, a house, a good job, and children are common goals for many people. And while there’s hard work and patience required for these blessings to come to fruition, it’s not at all unreasonable to find that, once acquired, they can be… a lot.
I love my husband. He and I have a good balance—my shortcomings are his strengths, and vice versa. I prayed for a husband like him, and I am immensely grateful for the gift he is. Still, there are days when I’m wearied by being a wife and all that it entails. I am madly in love with my daughter, and I could not ask for a better child. She is fascinating, hilarious, intelligent, and witty—with just enough sarcasm to prove she’s her mother’s daughter and her grandmother’s granddaughter. While she is a joy, there are days when being a mother does not thrill me, and I simply do what must be done.
I must admit, typing those last sentences came with a pang of guilt. But we are human, and the jars of clay that house our souls do feel the weight of burdens. Our humanity sometimes allows us to feel the heaviness of the very things that once existed only in our fondest dreams.
We were never meant to be constantly happy—breathing out rainbows and leaving sparkling trails in our footsteps. But we can choose to have joy.
Joy, while it sounds a lot like happiness, is much more the realist. It is calmer and more steadfast, and it understands that circumstances do not determine its presence. Joy knows that feelings are fleeting at best and deceptive at worst. Joy holds fast to love for the blessings we have and remains grateful despite the challenges they bring or the costs they carry. Happiness is tied to what’s going on around me, but joy is unhindered by such technicalities. Joy makes the decision to keep going—and that engine runs on gratefulness as its fuel.
There will be days when joy isn’t the easy choice because you’re tired. Days when you feel like a candle burned at both ends, then doused in a full pitcher of water. But on those same days—though you may not be frolicking like a glistening unicorn (my daughter is appeased)—you may feel more like a pack mule dragging through the last leg of a long haul. Even then, you can choose joy because surrounding you are blessings that a past version of yourself could barely imagine.
Fortunately, gratefulness—grimy with the residue of daily life though it may be—is a fantastic fertilizer for growing the most joyous of life gardens.
Prose and Possibilities 