Joy is a word you don’t hear much anymore. Talk of it in recent years feels almost foreign. My tongue needs practice to form it.
I believe it’s easy to feel this way when you wake daily in a country where an administration seems hell-bent on overthrowing the last remaining bits of a fragile democracy.
In the last year and a half, I’ve watched ICE detain, arrest and kill people in the streets of Minneapolis, Houston, Biddeford and Los Angeles with no repercussions or consequences. Any semblance of accountability is buried under tactical gear and behind balaclavas.
I’ve watched unjust immigration policies rip families apart.
I’ve witnessed a continuous effort to end birthright citizenship.
I’ve seen tyrannical leadership force companies into dismantling DEI initiatives. Not so much an overstep of executive power, but a multiple-square hopscotch-like leap.
I’ve heard stories about the rollback of social programs from the people they impacted.
I’ve counted an uptick in billionaire favorability and saw the rise of the world’s first trillionaire.
I’ve listened to the distrust of higher education. Voices who benefited from those institutions, voices whose children still attend those institutions, now label them as indoctrination camps.
Professors now have to carry the stigma of “woke” with their PhDs. The Department of Education is in shambles.
In fairness, it always kind of was. Still, on top of the cost and standardized testing, we now have restrictions on curriculum related to race, gender and history.
Don’t get me started on public schools. Don’t ask my opinion on vouchers if you’ve got somewhere to be. How long do you have?
I read the news or what I’m told is the news. I came across an article from The Washington Post about an individual asking out loud if they were having too much sex. This is the same paper that once broke the Watergate scandal.
I feel the tension with strangers and neighbors alike. We talk while eyeing each other suspiciously. I strain my ears to catch a phrase that indicates whether they lean left or right and I imagine they do the same.
The same tension is in the pulpit. I think about what I can say and not say.
I read from the Bible and sometimes hear I should stay away from politics. Funny how literalists are quick to exegete the Beatitudes.
I know there’s always been differences and indifference. Yet, over the last several years, the chasm has gotten wider.
The polarization of values grows with each election cycle. It’s enough to exhaust a distance runner.
My body aches because it’s constantly poised, on edge all the time and there’s no off switch. The hits just keep coming, like surf swells, leaving me angry and worried on my better days.
Any other time, I’m numb. The latter scares me the most.
Then there’s the pressure. The constant need to form an opinion, to push back on the lunacy of it all.
Every day is a fight. Every day is a struggle to keep up, read the latest story, plant myself on the right side, take a stand.
Be right. Be right. Be right.
If you don’t pick a side, one gets picked for you. Welcome to the Divided States of America.
How can one find joy in the midst of all this? I’m here to tell you, I did.
It’s out there. It might be small, but it’s out there.
I found it in a place I’d forgotten: the beauty of art, in the splendor that is film.
I don’t get to watch movies intended for adult audiences much anymore. Having small children changes the recommendations on your Netflix account. I see more Gabby’s Dollhouse than I do award-winning films, but last week that changed.
My spouse and I found ourselves with distracted children. If I had known plopping down an inflatable mattress in their playroom would have done the trick, I would have done it sooner.
In the quiet space, we watched Hamnet and Dream Trains. I wept over both.
Stories of loneliness and isolation. Moving images filled with bright color, costumes made with skilled hands that might as well have been works of magic, and cinematography that left me feeling like I was there.
I could smell the smoke. I could feel the grass.
I told my wife how much I missed this—having visual art move me with her by my side. I was moved to joy.
Since then, I’ve thought about joy. I’ve gone hunting for it. In some things, I see it easily.
I always see it in the faces of my children. The other night during a summer downpour, the two of them danced under umbrellas in quickly forming puddles. From my seat in a rocking chair, my soul was replenished.
I went to the library and checked out a few books on joy. In one, I learned the word hygge. The word is Danish and roughly translates to “coziness,” but that stops short of what it represents.
Think of an entire lifestyle centered on well-being, comfort and togetherness. Think warm, candlelit rooms, wool socks, and a crackling fire. Think of all this while surrounded by those you care about.
I love all these things, and I’ve forgotten the joy of them. And so I decided to make a change.
I started sitting on my porch more. I smoke a pipe stuffed with cherry-infused tobacco. I blow smoke rings that would make Gandalf proud.
I wave at a few people who stroll by. While startled, they wave back.
I walk my neighborhood, stopping to take a picture of a small rabbit that was nibbling a neighbor’s plant. I didn’t interrupt the critter’s meal.
I play the harmonica my wife gave me for Father’s Day. I can now play “London Bridge Is Falling Down” and “Mary Had a Little Lamb.”
And I have spun vinyl records. I don’t have many, but I collect albums where skipping is minimal. I prefer the needle stay down until I have to flip to the B-side.
I put on Nick Cave’s Wild God album and let the words of a song wash over me:
And then I saw a movement around my narrow bed
And then I saw a movement around my narrow bed
A ghost in giant sneakers, laughing stars around his head
Who sat down on the narrow bed, this flaming boy
Who sat down on the narrow bed, this flaming boy
Said, we’ve all had too much sorrow, now is the time for joy
I think the melancholic Australian is right—now is the time for joy. Everything else—the pain, frustration, the stress—it all can wait.
That includes Donald Trump and his followers. I’ve given them enough of my time.
While I know I can’t ignore them, they now get the minimum. They get the least amount of me.
The rest gets joy.
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Justin Cox received his theological education from Campbell University, Wake Forest University School of Divinity, and McAfee School of Theology where he earned his Doctor of Ministry. He is an ordained minister holding standing in the Cooperative Baptist Fellowship and American Baptist Churches USA. When not spending time with his spouse and daughters, he can be found writing and baking late into the night. His thoughts and reflections are his own.