Happiness: A By-Product of Loving God

I’m not sure if I’m the only one, but I find the early, wintry months of each year difficult. I try very hard to be content—to be happy—knowing that this, too, shall pass. However, the three months of cold, unpredictable weather—and this year, in particular, with sub-zero temperatures—makes it very difficult to keep my spirits up! Sunshine is so limited, and even when it is shining, the coldness makes it hard to feel joy or happiness.

On a more upbeat note, can you think of a time when happiness exuded from you? Allow me to share a piece of my memoir, written about a time when happiness was almost palpable, and, as I’ve been known to say, I was as “happy as a pig in mud.”

The ring of the phone broke the silence and startled me and my sister. We glared at one another, and then Mary smirked. Her voiceless dare didn’t surprise me, knowing my twelve-year-old sister’s bent toward defiance. Before I could even think, she had bolted toward the stairs and left me still wondering whether or not we should answer it. Mary had already made the decision: She was going to answer the phone regardless of Aunty May’s stern warning as she left us alone one evening: “Stay in your room and under no circumstances are you to answer the door or the phone.” Her warning held an unspoken promise of discipline. But that knowledge never stopped Mary and she began a race for the phone.

Being four years older, bigger and faster, and me being the kid sister, smaller and more timid, Mary left our bedroom in a leap and a bound, landed at the top of the stairs, then raced half-way down the steps, reached over the wooden banister and grabbed the phone on the third ring.

“Hello!” She exclaimed out of breath, all the while smiling at me, knowing she had won the race. And then her smile faded.

Now before I go any further, I need to explain something. My father had been in a critical life-threatening car accident in British Columbia several months earlier. When my mother flew west on October 8^th to be near him while he was hospitalized in Calgary, Alberta, me and my three older siblings had been hastily shipped out to family and friends. My older brother stayed for a time with neighbours and then later with my bachelor uncle and grandmother. The memory of where my second brother stayed has failed me. I’m thinking another neighbour. Mary stayed at a third neighbour’s home for a while, but eventually joined me at my Aunty May and Uncle Vic’s home, miles from our house, friends, and school. I can’t speak to how Mary felt, but I was miserable. I remember running away, back to our old neighbourhood on Ossington Avenue in Toronto, and staying two weeks with a neighbour I had come to consider my second mother. Of course, my aunt was told where I was and she was fine with it. Almost too fine, I think.

Other than going to school via two different street cars and a trolley bus, my young world had become a tyranny of dos and don’ts, and for this eight-year-old, living under the same roof as my Aunty May… well, let’s just say I wasn’t happy. She always wore a frown and was ready to correct or chastise, especially when I refused to eat the onions on my plate. (On one occasion, when she left the room, I scraped them back into the gravy pot!) Stern and rarely smiling, she gave all the appearances of wishing that the two extra kids under her roof were anywhere but there. She had enough with her own two boys (a third one came later),  and she didn’t need two more mouths to feed, or so it seemed.

On the other had, I loved my Uncle Vic. I felt sorry for him. He always had a weary smile on his face; but he also had a quarter in his pocket that soon became mine when I rubbed his feet. He was a part-time preacher, had a small church and an even smaller congregation that forced him to have a second job. He delivered milk, door to door, and at the end of the day was tired. I really did love my mother’s brother and didn’t mind rubbing his feet. Of course, getting a quarter helped, but I believe to this day it made him very happy having me there, and not just because I rubbed his feet! When Uncle Vic left this earth to join his heavenly Father, I was privileged to do his eulogy.

But back to the phone call.

“Mommy!” Mary yelled into the phone! “It’s Mommy!” Mary yelled again, this time at me. But I had figured it out by then, and the word ‘happy’ doesn’t begin to describe how I felt as I quietly stopped beside my sister on the steps. After Mary finished talking, I had my turn holding the receiver to my ear, smiling, shaking and even crying.

Five minutes, maybe six passed, and then we had to say our good-byes and the phone call was over. When Mary took the receiver from my hand and put it back in its cradle, we just sat quietly on the steps for a long time relishing the fact that we had actually spoken with our father! But the moment was bitter sweet: the absence of our parents had been magnified.

To some degree Mary knew how serious my father’s injuries were. I’d been sheltered from the details. I was just told that his injuries had left him not knowing he had four children; I was too young to understand the words permanent amnesia. Yet, we’d felt his love through the phone lines all the way from Calgary. But the euphoric moment had ended when my aunt returned home.

When the front door opened, Mary and I raced down the stairs, once again, only this time I was the winner.

“Mommy phoned! We talked to Daddy!” was all that we managed to shout in unison before Aunty May scolded us for disobeying her orders. She never considered that it had been five months since we had last spoken to our mother. We were just sent to bed without witnessing even the slightest moment of joy on my aunt’s face. Uncle Vic, on the other hand, smiled quietly behind my aunt’s back and winked. His smile warmed me and I loved him even more. I promised myself that I’d give his feet a really good rubbing the next time he asked, and I wouldn’t take the quarter.

The happy moment is etched in my mind forever. At a time in my life when I had needed love and understanding, when I had needed someone to ‘mother’ me, to be happy with me, I never experienced it. Instead, as an eight-year-old longing for her mommy and daddy,  I had to settle with the knowledge that I had at least talked to them both, and I had fallen asleep feeling wondrously happy despite the longing for my parents and the rejection of my aunt. I still smile at the memory.

In Exploring God, John Piper says, “Humanity is hardwired to pursue happiness. We’re always looking for it, whether we know we are or not.” As a child I had experienced immeasurable happiness when I heard my mother and father’s voices, but as an adult, my happiness is grounded in Christ as my Lord and Saviour. The Good News Translation of Psalm 37:4 states,“Seek your happiness in the LORD, and he will give you your heart’s desire.” That doesn’t mean God will fulfill my desires; it means He will plant His desires in my heart, and my choices and desires will be His. God’s thoughts will become my thoughts.

Simply put, our happiness is a by-product of loving God and seeking to please Him! So, on the cold wintry days that lie ahead in this year, 2019, I will strive to remember where my happiness lies!