Are You Open to Joy?

(Ezra 3)

Blue sky, pleasant breeze, casual chit chat.

Just two gals on a walk . . .

Until one gal pulls up short and looks the other gal in the eye.

Looks me in the eye.

Pointedly. 

“So . . .” she exhales slowly, “are you open to joy?”

Not the joy of the Lord, she clarifies, just plain joy.

I am open. 

But joy can be complicated . . .

Encountering someone who understands complicated joy in the book of Ezra is surprising.

But a face-to-face encounter in the Kroger parking lot turns out to be just plain astonishing.

Let’s set the scene first in Ezra.

The rebuilding project is in full swing.

The foundation of the Temple has been laid.

Songs and shouts of praise fill the air.

Everyone, well almost everyone, is full of joy for what is coming into existence.

Everyone but the old who remember what used to exist.

The original Temple.

Solomon’s beautiful Temple.

They, those caught up in the emotions of remembering what used to be, weep aloud.

The shouting and the weeping mingled together . . .

(Ezra 3:13 TLB)

I picture the rememberers huddled together.

The truth is they will never forget, and maybe they shouldn’t.

But the past is not returning.

And the present, with its joy, is here.

Joy and sorrow mingled together.

Intense . . . and beautiful.

Inside Kroger at 7:00 AM there are only two customers.

Me . . . and the customer at the end of the checkout lane next to mine.

His Vietnam army veteran cap catches my eye.

He’s in deep conversation with the bag boy.

Who’s actually not a boy at all.

He’s also wearing a Vietnam army veteran cap.

So engrossed am I in their conversation that I must be staring.

Because they notice me.

Embarrassing.

I attempt to scoot out ahead of him, but we wind up exiting together.

Until there we are.

Outside the store.

Standing face-to-face.

The moment of decision.

The moment I need to say something, knowing whatever I say will never be enough.

Never enough to express all that is in my heart for this vet who has experienced the unimaginable.

“I can’t imagine . . . I just can’t imagine,” I stammer.

And to my astonishment, he opens his heart to me. 

Right there in the parking lot.

Not the details of his war experiences, but the depth of his heart experiences. 

Things he needs to tell.

Things I need to hear.

“I can look back now without bitterness,” he confides. “Sadness, yes, but not bitterness. I know what it’s like to move forward in a world where I’m left without some of the people I started with. And to accept joy where I am.”

There we stand. 

Halfway between our cars.

Connected by the experience of balancing what was and what is . . . and accepting joy.

Mingled emotions.

A line from When I Survey the Wondrous Cross plays in my head.

The line about sorrow and love flowing mingled down.

A picture of the love of a Savior who understands the range and intensity and beauty of the emotions of the human heart.

Because He’s experienced them.

Sometimes joy is complicated.

One emotion isn’t always enough to express all that lives within the heart.

And that’s okay.

See you in a couple weeks.

Love,