A Song of Joy

Joy is the feeling of grinning inside. Melba Colgrove

He is smiling. Grinning shyly. This father who walked into my office holding a CD case in his hands. He was in the shelter for other business. A project he was working on for our donor recognition.

A co-worker had sent him to see me. "Louise can help you. She can connect you to people in the business," he told him.

He walked in. Shook my hand and I invited him to take a seat in the blue chair across from me. I'm a little non-plussed. I'm in the middle of something. I've got to get the copy finalized for the newsletter. My slides finished and submitted to the team organizing the Pecha Kucha night next week where I will be presenting. I'm busy. I don't have time for this stranger. Who is he anyway? The chatter in my mind is irritating. I quieten it and push my irritation aside to listen, attentively, to what he has to say.

He holds the CD case towards me but doesn't release it. "Before you play it let me give you a little background." His voice has a lilt to it. A gentle burble like a stream running through a forest high up in the mountains. "It all started with my daughter. She was eight you see. And she didn't understand. We were at a mall and there was a man pan-handling and she wanted to know why he was doing that. I tried to explain but didn't really have the words. And so, I wrote a song. I like to write music. It's not what I do and I have no desire to be in the business. It's just something I do."

And he handed me the CD case. Passed it over like a school boy handing in his report hoping it passes the grade. Hoping that when it's returned, it's not filled with red ink marks covering the words he so painstakinly and carefully crafted out of nothing.

I put the CD in my computer and click play.

And I listen. Quietly at first and then I feel myself slipping. Into silence. Into that place where magic and wonder convene upon a playing field of joy rising out of nothing more than man's ability to touch hearts with the beauty of our song exposed from the inside out.

I listen. Deeply.

It is beautiful.

A young girl's voice. His daughter. Asking her father. Him. Why? Why does he do that? Why doesn't he have a home?

And the father answers. I can't give you the answer. All I can do is show you how to make a difference.

And the young girl sings, No one should be alone for Christmas. Everyone should have a home.

I am silent when the song is finished. Silent and tearful.

The young girl's voice is not refined. It is not 'perfect'. But it is sweet. Sweet and innocent. And in its sweetness, in its echoing innocence is all the sorrow of mankind's struggle to make sense of our human nonsense. In her voice is the question we all have asked and let go of finding answers to -- Why do we do that?

And beneath the question is also the path. The path achingly exposed like a flower opening its bud to the first rays of the morning sun. It is a path, if we will just stop and listen to our children. To ourselves. To each other. It is a path that will take us away from sorrow, away from pain, away from hurting ourselves and each other. For in her voice is the gentle tenderness and innocence and hope and the possibility of knowing what can happen when we care for eachother, for ourselves, for our world, as if it is all that matters in our world.

In her voice is the future.

And in my heart is joy.

This stranger who walked into my office an unwelcome guest has brought me a gift I cannot repay.

He has brought me joy. The joy of knowing, we are One. One people. One world. One voice. We are One in creating a world beyond poverty and disease and violence and addiction and homelessness and deceit and corruption and war and genocide and abuse and babies dying of starvation and mother's leaving their children behind because of Aids.

We are One.

We are One when we hear our children's questions and search beyond what we know into that place where all we know is we can no longer let our children down. We can no longer leave their questions unanswered.

I sat and felt my heart beat within my body and felt the joy rise within me. I can make a difference.

"I'd love to help you," I said. "I'd love to be part of getting your song heard."

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This story, which happened to unfold yesterday is for this Tuesday's, Blog Carnival hosted by Bridget Chumbley at One Word at a Time and Peter Pollock of Rediscovering the Church.

The Blog Carnival is my bi-weekly "Oh Goody it's Tuesday" wake-up. I do not write these entries before the date. I always wait to discover what will appear in the early Tuesday dawn that will respond to the one-word prompt Bridget and Peter provide so that what I write comes straight from my heart filled with the images that are driven from that place just below my consciousness where imagination waits to be set free.

Last night, before I went to bed, I read Glynn's entry over at Faith, Fiction, Friends and let the idea of what I was going to write about JOY percolate through my dreams. I'd had a different story formulating when I awoke and then, when I sat down after my meditation, this one appeared, just as the father who walked into my office appeared and lit my heart with joy.

I love the writing process! And I love the idea of a one word prompt igniting my creativity.

You can take part in the action -- you can read, or you can contribute -- the choice is yours. Quick! Click on this link and get ready to be inspired, to be catapulted into a joyful world of wonder! Go here for a list of links to all of the contributions, which are posted throughout Tuesday and often through to the end of the week.

The Blog Carnival's FaceBook page is here.