Pastoral Letter: What Comes After Joy

It was a Thursday morning.

Like most mornings, we began by waking the boys and getting them ready for school. My older son had a hard time getting up and asked me for a massage. On mornings like that, I usually rub his back, shoulders, and legs and tell him, “Come on, it’s time to get moving.” So I stood there beside the bed, working on his back and shoulders, trying to help him wake up not only in body, but in spirit too.

These days he is enjoying his new bike so much. But that morning he got upset while looking for his jacket. It had been set aside to be washed the day before and was still sitting there. He was frustrated, running late, and not in the mood for much of anything. I tried to settle him down, got him into the car, and drove him to school.

On the way I said, “After school, let’s go ride the bike trail together. So, that we don’t let this rough start carry through the whole day. Let’s try again.” Usually when he gets out of the car, he says, “Love you.” That morning he only said, “Thank you,” and closed the door. I will admit, that stayed with me for a moment. But I let it be. There are days when love comes out easily, and days when “thank you” is all a child has in him. And just so no one worries—this is not that bike. On that particular debate, I am still winning.

After dropping him off, I came home and woke up my younger son. When I walked into his room, he was already awake, pretending to sleep. Then suddenly he popped up and shouted, “Boo!” He laughed. I laughed. Some mornings begin with prayer and quiet. Some begin with a small boy trying to scare his father before breakfast.

Lately he has been arguing with his mom because he wants to ride his bike to school too. He sees his brother doing it and thinks this should obviously be his future as well. So yesterday I ran alongside him as he rode to school, and after we got there, I rode his little bike back home myself while he took the school bus in the afternoon. So yes, yesterday morning included running exercise and a grown man riding a child’s bicycle through the neighborhood. It was a lively start to the day.

Then this morning, I was watching him sit at the table eating a bagel, ham and egg, and some fruit, and all of a sudden I felt tears come while I was smiling. I wiped my eyes quickly, but he noticed. “Why are you crying?” I said, “Because you are so lovely to me.” He gave me that little grin of his and went back to eating. Then he started telling me, in excited English, a long story made up of things he had learned and things his imagination had added along the way. To be honest, I could not understand all of it. Not even close. But it was still beautiful.

There are moments we do not fully understand and yet would not trade for anything. There are words we cannot completely follow, and still we want to keep listening. Maybe love is not built on full understanding. Maybe it is built on staying near, even when we cannot hold every part of what is being said.

Lately my wife and I have been listening to a song by AKMU: “Joy, Sorrow, A Beautiful Heart.”
These lines have stayed with me:
That sorrow follows after joy, that’s the mark of a beautiful heart.
Don’t push it away, hold it close, it’ll turn into a precious stone.
That shade lives behind sunlight, that’s a lovely, lovely truth.
Even without a bright shining smile, there are so many reasons to love.
There is something gentle and wise in those words.

Maybe the sorrow that comes after joy does not mean something is wrong with us. Maybe, it means the heart is still alive. Maybe, the shadow behind sunlight is not a contradiction at all, but simply part of what it means to love and to live deeply. Maybe, even the feelings we want to push away can, in the presence of Christ, become part of something tender and beautiful.

What does it look like to walk with Christ in ordinary life?

I think it often looks like this:
Like rubbing your child’s back before school.
Like trying to steady an upset morning with a promise of a bike ride later.
Like receiving “thank you” on a day when you were hoping for “love you.”
Like standing at the breakfast table with tears in your eyes because a child is eating, smiling, talking, and somehow your heart cannot hold all the love quietly.

We laugh as we live.
We cry as we live.
Some days are bright. Some days feel dim around the edges. Some days carry both at once.
And the Spirit wastes none of it.

The joyful days are not the only days God keeps. The tender days matter too. The irritated mornings matter. The tears that come for no dramatic reason matter. The small disappointment in a school drop-off line matters. The half-understood stories at the breakfast table matter.

None of it is thrown away.

We do not yet know what every day means while we are living it. We do not know why some moments arrive carrying both gratitude and ache. We do not know why love can make the heart feel so full and so breakable at the same time.

But perhaps one day, in the presence of God, we will see that nothing was wasted.

Not the quick “thank you.”
Not the tears at the table.
Not the words I could not quite understand.
Not the laughter.
Not the weariness.
Not the love.

So, today I want to hold this close:

That sorrow after joy may be the sign of a heart still open.
That shadows behind sunlight may mean our lives are still capable of depth.
That tears rising in ordinary moments may be one more quiet place where Christ meets us.
Beloved, do not be too quick to push away what feels tender, or heavy, or hard to name.
Bring your joy to Christ.
Bring your sorrow too.
Bring the parts of your day that made sense, and the parts that did not.
Bring your love, your weariness, your gratitude, your unanswered questions.

Our Lord does not meet us only in the polished parts of life.

Christ meets us in the ordinary morning, in the unfinished feeling, in the word we hoped to hear and the word we actually received.

And even there, grace is at work.

May the peace of Christ
—the peace than which there is nothing better—
be with you all.

Pastor DH