Joy – to be honest, this blog won’t have much of it. At least, that is how I feel as I begin writing. Something I have heard continuously over the last few months, whether in feedback, encouraging notes, listening prayer, or quick reminders, is that I carry joy.
“I seek you out in the morning to start my day with your joy and your smile.”
“Your joy fills the room and stays behind in it.”
“You bring joy to every child you encounter.”
Joy. I fear if these people saw me right now, they would see a different person. How do I minister through joy when I feel none of it myself? Where do you go when you feel the rot of stagnation creeping into your life? What do you do when your life feels like it’s on autopilot in a direction you don’t want to go? What do you do when all of your joy is gone?
Don’t get me wrong… I have the everlasting joy of Jesus Christ and His sacrifice and love for me. I even feel little sparks and flashes of joy in ministry. I felt it holding a premature newborn today. I felt it praying for little Deborah in the hospital to be healed of malaria. I felt it as we met the prison chaplain to set up inmate Bible studies for the week. I felt it as I volunteered to help teach kindergarten. But the burning flame of joy that has driven me forward through the race, that has apparently been evident to others, that has provided a warmth and comfort, is gone.
And I feel it’s absence like a gaping wound in my chest.
I lie in my tent at night and plead, crying out to God. Where are You? Why are You silent? Why am I even here? Why has my joy vanished?
I love this life I’m living with God. I wouldn’t trade it. I will keep the homesickness and weird food and ants crawling all over me literally all day and night. I will keep sleeping on the ground, cooking over semi-hot coals, and using a composting toilet. I will keep walking 45 minutes to ministry to tell a new mother Jesus loves her and pray for her baby. I will teach kindergarten even though the thought of stepping back into a classroom starts me shaking with anxiety. None of that has robbed me of my joy.
It simply slipped away silently sometime in the midst of month 6, with no mention of return.
I am tired. And my joy is simply gone.
What, really, do I have to complain about? Nothing. I know that. I may not feel joy, but others see it. So I will continue fighting for it, pushing through the desert and darkness. I may not have joy, but I have gratitude. In the center of my emptiness, I will still thank God for every person I meet, every lesson I learn, and every adventure He has for Him and I this year. I may not have joy, but I have an army of prayer warriors. I may not have joy, but I have a faithful Father who listens to my cries, sees my tears, and forgives my anger.
I may not have joy now. But one day (soon), I will.
“Then shall the young women rejoice in the dance, and the young men and the old shall be merry. I will turn their mourning into joy; I will comfort them, and give them gladness for sorrow.” (Jeremiah 31:13 ESV)
