Joy has an address in all hearts

I'm not packing my computer all the way to Florida — so this is being written before we leave. 

I've never been to the “Sunshine State.” And wouldn't be going now, but for our grandson's wedding. He's all of 22. I remember those newborn puffs of air against my face as I held him. That was in Alaska — my plane landing in Anchorage just five hours before the 9/11 attack. Caleb was nine days old.

He and Karly met through their work with Teen Missions International—based in Florida — leading a summer group to Honduras for faith sharing and work projects. This is a guy who once told me he wanted to live in the woods in Alaska, and be a hermit. When I reminded this world traveler (Taiwan, Australia, Malawi) of his boyhood plan, he said it still sounded like a good idea.

He's embracing the path he believes God has for him. It's very different from what he envisioned. I admire that. He's stepping out of his skin. It's a paradox found in the Bible — “Whoever loses his life for My sake will find it.” I've always called him Caleb the champion — more true than I knew.

His wife-to-be is neck-deep in wedding preparations. She's contending with a visiting “porch pirate” at her apartment. Riding a bicycle, wearing a hoodie in the heat, head down — and snatching the Amazon gift box—pedaling off. It's all on camera. He's done this twice now — he's on to her. Her porch is a candy store. She's had to change her delivery address.

I told her in the stresses and pressures of the upcoming ceremony not to forget joy. That God ordained the marriage sacrament to bring us joy and it is for His joy, too. Jesus chose His first miracle — changing the water to wine at a wedding party — to bring joy.

I urged her to let the “porch pirate” take anything that is not joy. It was a day later I had my epiphany. I needed to keep the joy as much as she. Terry and I were stressing over digging out an old suit and getting it cleaned. Locating a garment bag for transporting it. Finding a tie (lavender) to match his shirt. I was deep in the shoe shopping jungle, on an elusive hunt. There was packing to do — and a long flight ahead.

Easy to lose track of joy. We were making the trip to celebrate our beloved grandson and his girl. To be a grandparent blessing to them on their day. To spread joy and share joy. Let the porch pirate ride off with the rest.

About the time we return — after spending Thanksgiving week in Nashville with my brother and family — December will open wide the door. It lets in its own stress and pressure. Maybe too much preparation and cramming too many events. Or maybe alone and feeling it — too little to do. There are memories; there are losses. All can steal joy if I'm not watching.

I have to stop before I start. Think where joy belongs. For me it's in the carol, “Joy to the world, the Lord is come.” A Savior in a manger — beginning an infant with those same little puffs of air I felt from Caleb. Recognizing the miracle and meaning of His birth is where my joy resides.

Joy — it's got an address. One meant for all. My street and your street — my house and your house. Theft proof.