Quiet Joy Amidst Disappointment and Uncertainty

I was looking forward to next week's visit from our son who lives in Colorado, along with his wife, and our three grandchildren. He hasn't been back to The Christine Center since our wedding here 39 years ago this August.

Then life changed the script.

Our oldest grandchild went from the emergency room to the hospital for what may be an extended stay, and the trip had to be canceled. My heart aches for them. I'm disappointed for us. And, like so many things in life these days, I don't know when we'll all be together again.

When life bends me out of shape, I think of a palm tree.

During a storm, most trees fight the wind. Palm trees dance with it. Their trunks are filled with flexible fibers that bend instead of breaking. And beneath the ground, their roots spread wide, drawing strength from a broad network. That reminds me that resilience isn't about standing rigid. It's about staying connected.

So how do I become a little more like a palm tree?

Instead of demanding certainty, I try to practice curiosity.

What unexpected gift might this day hold?

Can faith and doubt sit at the same table? Can science, memory, literature, joy, and loss all pull up a chair together? I think they can.

Every afternoon I walk down the road to our mailbox. Along the way I pass fields bursting with summer flowers and slip into cool woods where the temperature drops several degrees. Nature is full of delightful surprises.

Lately I've been volunteering to arrange fresh flowers in tiny vases for the Christine Center dining room tables. I've also been watering and deadheading the flowers around the main building. Somewhere along the way I usually catch myself quietly singing.

I'm celebrating July birthdays with dear old friends - a little late, but no one seems to mind. Good friends rarely do.

As I write this, I'm looking out at pots of flowers on our patio. A hummingbird has appeared, hovering from blossom to blossom before stopping for a drink. Hummingbirds are often seen as symbols of joy, and this tiny visitor feels like a gentle reminder.

I've begun to realize that joy isn't something I have to chase. It has been quietly waiting inside me all along, like a deep well. Only recently have I remembered to lower the bucket.

This kind of quiet joy isn't dependent on perfect circumstances. It doesn't disappear when plans fall apart. It doesn't insist that life be predictable.

It simply waits in the quiet moments - in birdsong, in flowers, in old friends, in a cool breeze, in a simple walk to the mailbox.

Maybe that's the surprise.

Perhaps that's what it means to live like the palm tree, not never bending, but to trust that what is rooted deeply can always rise again.

Even when life doesn't go as planned, joy still knows how to find us.

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