Find and Bathe

Advent Around the Table: Week 3, Joy

He sighed, looked up, not heavenward but just to the tops of the pines. Then his smokey voice: For what are men better than sheep or goats that nourish a blind life within the brain, if, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer both for themselves and those who call them friend? That’s Tennyson, fyi.

She loved these moments. The two of them sitting side by side on wooden folding chairs out back behind the house, him slow smoking a single one of his signature Spirits, pulling snippets of poetry from the thickets in his mind. She’d long known him to be a reader, but she was continuously amazed at his ability to recall. In these moments, she’d learned the poetry parts were his way of inviting her not just to talk, but to think.

Wait a minute. Doesn’t the Bible call us sheep, all gone astray?

He chuckled. It does, Sis. But I’m sure as hell aiming to be more in this life than a sheep. And definitely more than a damned goat. A gentle nudge to her ribs with his elbow caused her spirits to rise. She half-grinned and elbowed him back with a baa.

She was her father’s only daughter, and he’d called her Sis as far back as her mind could reach. The endearment had always been special, but she’d felt it deeper since her mother had drifted off into some personal darkness that kept her largely confined to bed, oblivious to her daughter and her husband and her life. The doctor said with meds and rest and time, she’d find her way back. But that was six months ago. Her mother seemed to be in no hurry.

I know it looks like your mom’s not getting any better, but she is. She’s taking baby steps back toward us. But here’s the deal. You’ve been mopey lately, all more than fair due to what’s going on. But I know you, and that’s not you.

I feel stuck, dad. I don’t want to be stuck, especially since it’s almost Christmas. But I don’t know how to get unstuck.

Sis, I think you have misplaced joy. Without joy we are as dead.

Is that Tennyson?

No, no, we moved on to Patti Smith.

A lone crow’s caw caw briefly interrupted their conversation. They both followed it to the top of one of the pines.

Now it was her turn to sigh. Okay, I’ll play. Does Patti Smith say how I can find it again?

Gosh it’s your lucky day, kid. Yes. Find those who have it and bathe in their perfection.

He leaned back to take an intentional drag of his cigarette, giving her a minute to chew on what he’d just said. A breeze kicked up causing the pine tops to gently sway.

She turned and looked directly at him. She trusted him. Dad, do you think Patti Smith’s right?

He turned and met her direct gaze. I do, Sis. And I’d add you have to do that every day. You know the story of manna in the Old Testament, how it fed the people but only for the day. They couldn’t save it for later, the leftovers would go bad. My take is that joy’s the same. Find those who have it and bathe in their perfection. But you gotta get up and do that all over every day.

So I’m guessing when your poet Patti Smith says to find those who have joy, she’s thinking more than just people. That why you sit out here and smoke and look at the pine trees?

He sat up straight. Now if you recall, I aspire to more than sheep nature, so I sit out here and pray, I remember your mom and you and anyone else that crosses my mind, even me. But yes, those pines hold a joy that stirs me. I can’t exactly say why, they have since I was a boy. Maybe because my mother loved pine trees. Being in their presence brings me joy. And should you decide to join me out here? Hell, Sis, that’s a joy bomb.

You still just smoke one, right? That’s it?

Yes, ma’am. One is sufficient. It brings me joy too.

Well, I too aspire to be more than a sheep, so when I pray I pray you’ll quit altogether. But for now I’ll allow one. She soft-kicked the edge of his chair.

They sat quiet for a few minutes, and then a few more. The crow cawed and took off for someplace else. The pines continued their easy sway. Traffic hustled in the distance.

I’ve felt like I couldn’t be happy around mom, that it’d make her feel insecure or that I didn’t care or something, you know?

I do. I felt the same way at first. But we can’t play small, Sis. I’ve no idea if it works this way or not, but there’s got to be a chance that your mom sensing our joy might kick some loose in her. I don’t know, maybe not. I do know I want to believe that. Either way, we can’t play small.

She nodded silently, then stood and stretched, shook out her arms and legs. You coming in?

I’ll be in shortly.

I’ve got a little algebra to finish up. I might listen to Johnny Mathis’ Christmas music while I do. He’s sort of a poet.

A poet extraordinaire, Sis. I’ll be in shortly.