Joy In a Minor Key
We just got back from scattering my mom’s ashes on the Pacific Coast—Dana Point, to be exact.
It was Thanksgiving weekend, which already carries its own emotional weight without adding “memorial at sea” to the mix. There were moments that were deeply sad, of course. There were other dynamics that day that stirred up old hurts and fresh anger, too. It was not a tidy Hallmark holiday. It was layered and complicated and heavy.
And yet.
In the middle of the sorrow, there were these little joy sparks all around me. A joke here. A memory there. The way the light hit the water. The laughter of someone on the boat. A shared look with someone who knew exactly what this moment meant. It felt like a reminder: there is an undercurrent of joy running through my life that grief can’t cancel.
Was I happy all weekend? Absolutely not.
But happiness and joy are not the same thing.
That’s the thing, I think many of us spend so much energy chasing an instant and constant feeling of happiness (which is temporary and dependent on external factors) that we forget what joy actually is.
Happiness is fragile, circumstantial, and fleeting.
Joy is eternal, deeply rooted, and consistent because its source is the Giver of joy.
Scripture talks about joy in a way that’s almost offensive if we confuse it with “always feeling good.” The angels show up to a group of scared shepherds in the dark and say:
“Do not be afraid. I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all the people.” (Luke 2:10–11)
“Great joy” enters the world in the middle of the night, in an occupied land, in a world that was still very much not okay.
Later, Jesus tells His disciples:
“I have told you this so that my joy may be in you and that your joy may be complete.” (John 15:11)
His joy. In us. Not because everything is fixed, but because He is present.
And then there’s that wild little line in Nehemiah, spoken to a people who are weeping as they listen to God’s Word:
“Do not grieve, for the joy of the Lord is your strength.” (Nehemiah 8:10)
Not: the joy of your circumstances.
Not: the joy of your well-behaved family.
Not: the joy of all your holiday plans going exactly right.
The joy of the Lord; who He is, what He has done, what He has promised, that is our strength.
Earlier this week, we went to our grandson’s band concert. He plays drums, and at school he’s learning all the percussion instruments. He’s up there with his sticks and mallets, trying to remember counts and cues and when exactly not to hit something too loudly.
Once a week, he takes private lessons from one of the young men who has become so dear to us. He’s part of our young adults crew, part of our church family, and truly a friend.
I was sitting in that hard school auditorium chair, watching this whole scene, when something hit me so profoundly that I almost couldn’t breathe.
That young man, this student, this worshipper, this funny, loving, thoughtful twenty-something, is the son and legacy of our dear friends. One of my pastors. My co-worker. Someone I love and respect.
And our grandson, this new drummer, this fifth grader, this creative old-soul kid, is the son and legacy of our son.
Our son, who is no longer here.
And there it was: the son of my friend pouring time, skill, encouragement, and music into the son of my son.
Legacy pouring into legacy. Story into story. The faithfulness of God showing up in the shape of drumsticks and Wednesday afternoon lessons.
The wave of joy and gratitude that rolled over me in that moment was almost overwhelming. Right there in the multipurpose building with its bad lighting and squeaky chairs, I felt that deep underground river of joy rise up:
God, You are so good.
Not because everything in my life is okay.
Not because grief has stopped hurting.
But because there is a thread of redemption and goodness being quietly woven, even here.
Joy is not pretending your heart doesn’t hurt.
Joy is being able to say, “My heart hurts, and God is still good.”
Happiness is wonderful. God isn’t anti-happy. But happiness depends heavily on what is happening.
·Happiness is when the weather is perfect, the travel is smooth, and the family photo turns out great.
Joy is when you’re standing on the deck of a boat, scattering ashes into waves, and still sense that God is near.
Happiness says, “I feel good, so life must be good.”
Joy says, “God is good, even when I don’t feel good.”
Paul writes:
“Rejoice in the Lord always. I will say it again: Rejoice!” (Philippians 4:4)
That verse used to annoy me a little, if I’m honest. Always? Really, Paul?
But he doesn’t say, “Rejoice in your circumstances always.” He says, “Rejoice in the Lord.” We aren’t being asked to pretend everything is fine; we’re being invited to anchor our joy in Someone who is.
One thing I love about Shadow and Light: A Journey into Advent is how Tsh Oxenreider holds both the ache and the anticipation together. She writes that Advent is about remembering Christ has already come and “recognizing the work of redemption is not yet finished.”
That tension—the now and not yet—is precisely where joy lives.
We already have Jesus.
We do not yet have all things made new.
So we live in this in-between, where shadow and light mix on the same day, sometimes in the same breath.
In another place, Tsh notes that “too many good ideas are overwhelming, and they can keep us from doing anything at all.”
Isn’t that December in a nutshell?
We have endless ideas for how to make everything magical and meaningful, and the sheer weight of those “good ideas” leaves us numb and stuck. The chase for perfect experiences and constant happiness can actually smother our capacity for real joy.
What if joy is less about doing all the good things and more about noticing the good God right in the middle of the messy things?
Traditionally, the third Sunday of Advent is called Gaudete Sunday: from the Latin Gaudete, “rejoice.” It’s the week we light the rose-colored candle on the wreath, a bright little reminder of joy in the midst of a season that has historically been quite sober and almost filled with penance.
It’s like the Church collectively says, “Yes, we are waiting, longing, repenting, and groaning… and we are also allowed to rejoice right here, before anything changes.”
That feels important this year.
Joy does not wait until grief is done.
Joy does not wait until all relationships are mended.
Joy does not wait until our mental health is perfectly regulated or our schedules are perfectly balanced.
Joy dares to show up in the hospital room, in the family tension, in the conversation about ashes, and memory, and loss.
If joy is something deeper than a mood, how do we actually grow in it? Here are a few gentle practices I’m leaning into this week:
Name the Joy Sparks
Each day, I’m trying to name at least three “joy sparks.” Tiny, specific things that point to the goodness of God:
The way my grandson’s face lights up when he talks about drums.
The sound of waves still echoing in my ears from Dana Point.
A text from a friend who simply says, “Thinking of you today.”
It’s not about forcing myself to be positive; it’s training my eyes to see the undercurrent of grace that is already there.
“Those who sow in tears will reap with songs of joy.” (Psalm 126:5)
Sometimes sowing in tears looks like choosing to notice joy even while everything is still a little blurry.
Practice Joyful Remembrance
Joy grows when we remember.
When I remember that moment in the band concert—the son of my friend pouring into the son of my son—I feel my heart rise in worship. That’s not manufactured happiness; that’s remembering that God is still writing stories.
Maybe for you, it’s:
Remembering a time God came through in a way you couldn’t have orchestrated.
Remembering a person who has been a tangible expression of His love.
Remembering a season when you were held in ways you didn’t even recognize at the time.
Write one memory down this week and simply pray, “Thank You.”
Make Space for Both Tears and Laughter
Joy is not threatened by tears.
This week, give yourself permission to laugh without guilt and cry without shame. Both can be holy.
If you find yourself crying in the car, you are not “failing at joy.”
If you find yourself laughing at a silly meme five minutes later, you are not being disrespectful to your grief.
Joy can hold both.
Choose One Small Act of Joyful Generosity
Joy almost always spills outward.
Ask God: Who can I encourage this week?
A text of gratitude.
A handwritten note.
Dropping off coffee for a tired friend.
Encouraging a child (or young adult) who is quietly wondering if they matter.
Sometimes the quickest way to remember joy is to become a conduit of it.
If this Advent finds you standing somewhere between ashes and concerts, between sorrow and laughter, this is for you:
May the God of joy meet you in the deep water
On the days when you cannot tell where sorrow ends, and gratitude begins.
May He remind you that happiness will come and go,
But His joy is rooted in a story that cannot be undone.
May you see the small joy sparks He scatters along your path:
a song, a memory, a friend, a drumbeat, a wave,
And may they point you back to the river of joy
That has been running under your life all along.
And may you know, even with tears in your eyes,
That the One who brings “good news of great joy”
has come for you,
is with you now,
And will come again.
Amen.
