The Sacred

The Secret to Happiness

There was a song I learned when I was a little girl in my Sunday School class that went something like this –

I’ve got the joy, joy, joy, joy down in my heart. Where? Down in My heart. Where? 

Down in My Heart.

If you know it, I’m sure you’re humming along at this point. 

And I’m so happy. So very happy. I’ve got the love of Jesus in my he-aaaaaa-rt. 

And of course, every kids favorite part – 

And if the Devil doesn’t like it he can sit on a tack. Ouch! Sit on a tack! Ouch! Sit on a tack! 

None of us kids really knew what a tack was, but we got to jump up out of our seats and grab our behinds, so that was all that really mattered. 

Even now, I bet if I started singing the first few notes of that song all my Baptist friends would join right in and still grab their tushies when the Devil sits on a tack. 

But something has happened between being kids who sang that song unashamedly and growing into adults who seem to have forgotten all about joy. 

I think a lot of us pushed that joy really far down in our hearts. Like way too far down. So way, way down that the joy doesn’t show up very often anymore. 

Have you noticed it too? 

There’s a whole lot of people who seem angry. And jealous. And mean. And just plain tired. 

Where did the joy go? 

In my extensive research and thorough investigation (ok, more like just thinking about it for 5 minutes at the end of the day before my head hits the pillow), I decided to list all the happy people I knew and what they had in common. A little dorky? Yes. But insightful? Also yes. 

I started with money and good health – two things that should insure happiness. But I quickly had to scratch those off, as none of the happy people I knew had an abundance of either one. Nice homes? Some were a yes, some were a no. Stress free lives? Absolutely not – the stress for these people was the same as for anyone else. 

Secure marriages? Maybe. Although some of the happy people were on their second go round at it. Living in beautiful cities or neighborhoods? Not at all. Perfect children? Nope. Beautiful faces and model bodies? Nada. Jobs they loved and gave them purpose? Sometimes, but not always. 

My list was getting longer. It was harder than I thought to find something in common amongst the joyful people I knew. But I persevered. And just as I was about to give up, I hit upon two traits that every single one of my happy friends shared.

First  – all my happy friends have an abundance of generosity and love for others. Not just a little bit. Not only to people they like. But to everyone. These happy people open their arms and their hearts wide, they invite all into their lives, they are generous to the extreme, and they always think of others first. They are the type of people who give money to strangers, who invite the new neighbor to the block party, who drop everything to help someone in need. Their joy in helping others has no limits. And they do it with a smile on their face.

Second – and this one surprised me – all my happy friends love to eat. Not in an unhealthy way, but in a delightful way. Food to these friends is something to be enjoyed. Something to look forward to. There is always lots of talk about dinner plans and exciting new dishes they have tried. Getting together over a meal is something that all my happy friends love to do. Fish fries, crawfish boils, pot-luck lunches after church. My happy friends all savor the experience that a good meal can bring. Afterall, it makes sense. Have you ever seen a grumpy person eating lemon ice-boxed pie? I didn’t think so. 

Jesus once told the story of a man who had a son. This son was no-good, took his father’s money, wasted it all, and then when he was broke and despondent, decided to return home to beg for forgiveness. Jesus says when the father saw his son walking on the road back home, he ran to him and smothered him in hugs and kisses, his arms open wide to welcome his precious child. He did not stop to say “I need some time to think about this” or “I can forgive you but I won’t forget” or “It’s really not fair what you did to me.” No, this father’s joy was abundant. He never closed his heart to a returning son. 

And not only that, but what did the father say? “Go buy the biggest crawfish you can find. Get that boudin out of the freezer that we’ve been saving for a special occasion. Put the pots on to boil. We’re havin’ us a party tonight!” Or something like that. 

Now I am not a theological expert, or have spent too much time studying the nuances of Jesus’ parables, or even have a degree that would give me permission to dissect this story, but I just wonder if it’s a coincidence that the joyous Father in this story is also a Generous, People Loving, Arms Open Wide, Feaster too? 

Maybe it’s that simple. Maybe Jesus was telling us the way to happiness all those years ago with a story. Maybe he knew that finding our joy would be hard some days, so he was pointing us toward the way. 

Go love people. Even when it’s hard. Even when they don’t love you back. Even when they have hurt you. Open your arms wide to others and the happiness will flow in, like a child running into his Father’s arms. Give, and the joy will be abundant. 

Then, go enjoy a really good meal together. 

And if the Devil doesn’t like it he can sit on a tack. 

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The Mockingbird

A mockingbird has taken up residence in the crepe myrtle tree beside our bedroom window. On warm and moonlit summer nights, he sings me to sleep with his vast repertoire of melodies. He croons them over and over with a chorus of locusts and crickets as his choir, until my eyes start to feel heavy and I drift off to sleep. 

It amazes me that this Louisiana land can create something as beautiful as the mockingbird, while also growing evil mosquitos the size of my fist, killer fire ants, and red wasps that will send you to the hospital. I guess that’s the trade-off with living here – the beauty comes with the danger. You can’t get one without the other. 

My Audubon Field Guide to Birds book tells me the mockingbird can mimic up to 36 calls of his neighboring birds. I’ve counted up to 12 so far. The book also tells me that the mockingbird is a small bird, with not many distinctive features and no striking good looks. I’ve never actually seen the mockingbird outside my window, but that’s ok. He tells me he’s there every night with his songs. 

I’ve named him Atticus, for obvious reasons. I imagine Atticus flying around the neighborhood during the day, visiting with the cardinals and robins. Listening to the doves and sparrows. He flies from tree to tree, paying attention to the songs of his bird people. He might hang out with the white egret that fishes for minnows in the bayou nearby, or sit in a tree while the red headed woodpecker pecks for bugs. I like to think that no matter where he goes, he’s always listening the songs of those around him. 

Atticus probably has good days and bad days. Sometimes the summer sun is searing and water is hard to find. Other times the rains come and he enjoys a nice long soak in the puddles in the backyard. He might fly far from home one day and wonder if he will make it back to his tree. He might get tangled up with a snake or have to hide from territorial neighborhood dogs.

But whatever the circumstances, I can count on Atticus singing me his song at the end of the day, bidding the world good night the only way he knows how. He repeats the melodies of the birds he met that day, he lets me know all is well in the backyard by the calls of his friends. When I close my eyes and listen, I’m reminded that Atticus has no song of his own to sing. His lullaby is made up of all the beautiful sounds of those around him. 

And as I bow my head to sing my song, to breathe my prayer as the world goes to sleep, I try to remember that mine is not the only song there is to sing. I think of Atticus and wonder if he’s been trying to tell me something all along. 

Maybe instead of attempting to change the world with my song, I should simply be more like Atticus. Maybe I need to remember that everyone has a beautiful song and it may not always sound like my own. Maybe I need to pay attention to what the others are singing. Maybe, when I can repeat the melodies of those I meet, when I can listen to their song, when I can put all those hearts and souls together, it will make the most beautiful music of all. 

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No Answer

We sat on the thread-bare couch together and stared at the television screen. Most days Mr. Mom was watching football, but not today. Today there had been another school shooting. 

Mr. Mom looked at me. “I can’t do it, Ms. Sally. I can’t send my babies to school if this is what’s happening.”

He had tears running down his cheeks. It was the first time I had ever seen a man like this cry. 

My job as an At-Home Teacher took me to all sorts of places. I saw students in gated communities and students in mobile homes. I stepped over trash piles and petted dogs that I knew by name as I knocked on the door. I went to homes with goats and chickens roaming the yard, houses that were spotless and houses that had roofs falling in. They were all different, but had one thing in common – the parents loved their children and wanted them to get an education. 

Mr. Mom lived in a tiny home in what most people would call a “low-income” neighborhood. His wife worked every day while he stayed home with the kids. He was an ex-football player, was twice my size, and loved to yell at the TV as he re-watched football games all day. To be quite honest, he was someone who I would have been scared of if I passed him on the street.

But I had learned that Mr. Mom was a teddy bear of a man, who laughed easily and was always very respectful. We were as different as could be, and while I didn’t always agree with his parenting choices, he loved his babies more than anything.

Most days I worked on the floor with the children as he blared the television. The children and I would sing songs, read books, count, and draw. Sometimes the two cats and pit-bull puppy would join us on the floor and crawl into my lap. There was also a White Anaconda snake in an aquarium in the corner that I always kept my left eye on, just in case he decided he wanted to join our lessons too. 

“What am I sending my babies to, Ms. Sally? Why are they shooting our kids?” Mr. Mom’s big brown eyes were pleading with mine, begging me for an answer. 

But I had no answers for him. As I sat beside him on the couch, I felt the tears sting my own eyes as I tried to offer words of comfort. I stumbled my way through an explanation of how we as teachers will protect our students at any cost, how we are trained in active shooter drills, how we have hiding places for our children at school. But my words fell flat as I watched the tears continue to roll, so I quit talking. I sat back down on the floor with the children and we started singing a song, as their dad continued to cry silently on the couch. 

Every once in a while I would glance up at this giant of a man, who was dressed in pajama pants, a gold chain around his neck, and slippers. Tears rolled down his cheeks for the remainder of my lesson. At the end, as I was packing up my toys and heading out, he was gathering his children in his arms and squeezing them tight. 

I wanted to tell him that everything would be ok, that his kids would be safe at school, that no one would harm them there. But I didn’t say any of those things because I knew they were empty promises. There was nothing I could say that would make any of this go away. No words would give Mr. Mom the answer he needed. 

And now – many years later as I watch another tragic school shooting in Texas unfold, I  still have no answers to offer. I can tell you that we, as teachers, have plans in our heads of what we will do if a shooter comes into a classroom. I can tell you that we will shield our students until we die. I can tell you that our schools know and rehearse the threat of shooters in the building. 

But those words still fall flat, just like they did all those years ago with Mr. Mom. Because when we hit the bottom and we sob on the couch as we watch another school shooting, we just know it shouldn’t be happening. And no words will ever solve the problem. 

So maybe, instead of more words of what we can do better, or how the teachers are trained to take bullets, or what everyone in the country is doing wrong to cause the problem  – maybe we should all go sit on the couch of someone we would be scared of if we saw him on the street. Maybe we should get to know his life – pet his pit-bull puppy as the dog slobbers on our shoes and cuddle his children in our laps.

Maybe we should cry with the one who is different from us, sit down and shed tears with the one who we thought we hated. Maybe we should reach out to the one who has more money than us, or less money than us, or lives in scary neighborhoods, or drives fancy cars, or voted for the enemy, or played on the wrong team. 

Maybe, just maybe, if we reach out to those whose life is so very different from our own, if we stretch our hands outward instead of inward, if our hearts connect with a hurting world, we will not need words at all because our actions will shout louder than any words ever could. 

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