This morning’s walk was as close to perfect as possible this side of heaven. I was out the door before the breeze picked up, so there was no pushing against the wind.
It was early enough to watch the sunrise,
spy on the red fox bounding up the rise beside the stream,
watch the birds fight for their turf,
beat the road traffic and hear the quiet.
I was out the door before the morning news reports. So I didn’t hear about the tornado in Joplin, Missouri until after I arrived home, chalk full of gratitude for our lovely weather and the opportunity to enjoy it. Two minutes into the radio description of the devastation and my heart was sinking. A minute longer, and the joy of my town’s fresh spring morning – perfect for open windows, bird song, and breezes – became a weight on my shoulders.
How can I be happy when so many are hurting?
How can I thank God for beauty instead of rage against his destruction?
Am I devoid of compassion, totally selfish?
Why am I not wearing sack cloth, covered in ashes?
There are children dying in Africa,
people putting their lives back together after last month’s tornadoes,
houses about to be flooded in Louisiana,
families torn apart by terrorists’ bombs,
Afghanistan racked by war,
destruction, doom, gloom, and sadness on all sides.
The burden of calamity presses hard on my shoulders. But what can I do except offer prayers and money while hanging onto the joy of this spring morning?
No, I will do more than just hang onto the joy by my fingertips.
I will bathe in the beauty,
bask in the sunshine,
inhale the perfume of flowers,
store it in every cell of my body.
So I am ready when destruction draws near, wounds friends, even takes them away.
So I have a deep reservoir of joy to share with my neighbors who have none.
As they shared with me when calamity came to our house.
Today, I will store up joy,
joy to spare,
joy to share,
the promise of joy to come,
the joy of this perfect spring morning.
and pass it on to you.
