The Volume of Joy

 

My mom passed away two months ago.  A word that she embodied was joy.  My aunt, my mom’s younger sister, told me that it came about on a girls’ trip.  The sisters (my mom was one of four girls in a family of six kids) each chose a fruit of the Spirit with which they connected closely.  My mom chose joy.

 

I’ve been putting together a slide show of photos from my mom’s life.  Younger to older, her bright, full-face smile is consistent throughout.  I know she didn’t always feel joyful, but even in dementia, her pictures show an irrepressible joy.  My mom used to decorate with words.  In my parents’ house, you can go into any major room or bathroom and find a sign that reads “Home”, “Hope”, “Family”, “Love”, and of course, lots and lots of “Joy”. 

 

Sometimes my mom’s joy made me feel like hiding away.  I remember being pregnant with my first baby and going to this wonderful baby shower at my childhood church.  My mom was bubbling over.  She wanted me to take my coat off so everyone could see my belly.  In the large room, people couldn’t hear what I said when I opened presents, so my mom somehow got a microphone set up.  I shied away from it, so she stepped in, giving commentary and stories. 

 

My mom’s joy was exuberant.  It was expressive.  Her joy was loud.  

 

Since she’s been gone, I’ve thought, ‘What if I were more intentionally joyful, as a way of honoring her?’  I’ve rarely expressed joy the way she did.  Could I turn up the volume?

 

Today, at church, I chatted with Pat, a church member who turned ninety last month.  She told me she celebrated by going horseback riding.  That was her desire for the day.  Pat had ridden horses up until her forties.  She missed it and her family made the adventure happen for her gift.  After she told me about it, Pat said something that resonated with what I’d been wrestling with, related to joy.

 

She said, “You know, joy can be quiet too.”

 

Pat explained that her heart felt filled to the top with joy while she was riding that horse.  She reveled in it.  But, on the outside, she said, she probably just looked calm and peaceful. 

 

“You don’t have to shout and jump and make a big fuss for it to be real joy.”

 

I love that, and it fits what feels like me.  I can carry on my mom’s joy in the world.  Maybe it will be loud and expressive sometimes.  More likely, it will continue to be that sweet, inner delight that comes from savoring each moment.  The kiss I plant on my sleeping daughter’s sweaty forehead.  The smell of somebody barbecuing nearby.  My feet sinking into sand as waves hug my ankles.  Joy is a good choice, whatever the volume.