Our backyard is a suburban anomaly. The grass is not putting-green-ready. The bushes are wild and natural. The weeds that sprouted from under the bird feeders are still there. The flowerbeds have perennials that are showing the browns and greys of winter now. But in other ways, things are flourishing! We have songbirds, squirrels, ground hogs, chipmunks, mice, shrews, raptors… and foxes.

Last winter and spring, a pair of foxes romped in our yard regularly. They appeared to be a bonded pair, and in late spring they brought their kits to our yard to practice hunting. But by high summer, the fox family had disappeared, probably into the deep underbrush of the nearby stream and wetlands.

This week one of the foxes was back, in full, furry display. I hastily snapped a picture through the kitchen window, wanting to memorialize the moment. My blurry photo doesn’t do the fox justice. His ruff was full and his tail floofy, his black socks a striking complement to the rust-red coat. It brought such joy.

Joy… a fleeting, buoyant, lifted moment. A tangible feeling of rightness, or real-ness, of contentedness.

It was not a moment of happiness. In the split-second that I felt joy, I also felt sadness that Ken was not beside me, reveling in the moment. The joy was still there. The grief was, too.

There is a real-ness of how I am experiencing Joy this Christmas. For years I have taught that Joy is a Fruit of the Spirit (and it is) and it not based on feelings (also true.) I preached that “joy is a choice” (not really) and that joy can be “renewed.” (Well… marginally true.) But what I never was never able to express in a sermon, as I rested on clichés and others’ words, I am now able to internalize in this Christmas season. I hope I can put it into words…

Joy resides in the place where Hope and Peace and Sorrow and Mourning reside… together in the human Spirit.

Joy is watching the birds find our birdbath, heated so that they have access to water. Joy is seeing a squirrel be defeated, over and over, from getting access to the bird feeder. Joy is laughing at memories from years of life together, of raising kids and doing chores, and taking trips, and arguing over doing the dishes. Joy is looking at a photo of a beloved’s face, while missing him with an intensity I did not know was possible.

Joy and grief live together. Joy and numbness live together. Joy and sadness live together. Joy and anger live together. Joy and questions, fears, and doubts… they all live together.

In the simplest of terms, I have Joy… but it struggles to surface. Like my neighbor’s holiday decorations, I quickly run out of air in the day-to-day bustle of the Season. I find social events exhausting, yet at the same time, crave human presence. Christmas and grief is… exhausting.

Joy, my friends, is not a simple, light-a-candle moment. We all intellectually know this. But I would suggest that until you have experienced Joy while simultaneously struggling to get out of bed, shower, dress, and put on your shoes… you don’t know Joy.

Joy resides in the deepest, quietest, hardest, angriest, least-loving part of you. You don’t earn it, find it, reclaim it or kindle it. (Please put those tropes to rest!!) Joy just IS. And in the fleeting moments where Joy pops up, you remember, once again, that it is a Gift.

As I write this, I am being entertained by Stewart’s wiggles and noodling around beside me. It’s time for his “Elevenses” since, since being trained by a good Ent-Hobbit, he asks for a snack every morning about the same time. I laugh at him. I don’t touch the belly he shows me. I smile as he quickly flips over and dashes off, a cat-in-motion, chasing a catnip banana, or chattering at the songbirds on the suet block. In the same breath, I remember how he was Ken’s constant companion… and I reach for tissues.

In the time of year when there are no flowers blooming, it can be hard to see beauty in the browns and greys of winter. But beauty is there — in the silence and the waiting. In the fleeting moments of Joy, waiting again for the lushness of spring.

The writer of Psalm 65 shared elation at the sight of the bounty and richness of Creation. I wonder… if perhaps the words were written in the silence of Winter… You crown the year with your bounty, they wrote. The meadows clothe themselves with flowers; the valleys deck themselves with grain; they shout and sing together for joy. (Psalm 65, NRSV)

I hold close the memories of lush ferns and fragrant geraniums, of the bees buzzing in the wisteria overhead, of sitting together on the patio in the sunshine, or resting in the shade. All the while, I look at a quiet, brown, wintering-over garden. Joy is there but seems stilled, as if in deep thought. It is not a bouncing joy with sparkles and flourishes; it is reflected in deep stillness…

Joy… mingled with grief. That’s where I’m living.

Resting in God’s goodness… and lighting a pink candle this week… There the Divine rests in the midst of crushed tissues and sympathy cards. And Joy is enough.

Blessed be…