Joy is the family who gather around the table with you for a meal, for game night, or for storytime. It's the friends who grow old with you, but it's especially the one who keeps you young.
Joy is timeless.
Look back at your wedding, at the birth of your children, at moments you joined your friends to do something incredibly irresponsible if not actually illegal, and you'll see joy there. She catches your eyes, and waves hello from the past, and you can't help but laugh with her. But when turn your eyes to the future, you'll find that she's there too, still waving but waiting for you. You can see her in the fields of tomorrow, as your children find their footing and make their own way; as dreams come true and even when they make way for other dreams. "There's no hurry," she whispers, and you realize she's here with you too.
Joy is one of life's constants.
We think of joy in terms of big events: a birth at St. Peter's, a wedding in Atlanta, a reunion of friends in Tuscon. But joy is woven like a golden thread through the small things: the touch of fingers as a glass of lemonade passes from one hand to another, in the morning ritual of spotting and counting tropical birds, in the small talk between father and daughter on the front stoop in the summer evening. It is in these moments, sewn together, that life's value is found.
Joy is like a river.
The salmon live in the river, but the river isn't always gentle. It has bends, it has twists and turns, and it has rapids and falls that compel the salmon to make astonishing leaps. The divine joy can be like that as it sweeps us along. It may buffet us and toss us about, but there is no other place to be, because it is where we come alive.
Joy is permanent.
One day fire will grow cold. One day the stars will close their eyes. One day the music will cease and the dancers will quit the floor. One day the audience will leave, the house lights will dim, and we'll find ourselves alone, except for joy.
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