NOT SO LITTLE JOYS…
There are micro-rescues.
Quiet pushes that do not announce themselves. Gentle interruptions that slip in
when heaviness feels permanent. They are survival strategies for people who have
learned how weight settles in the chest. For people who wake up already tired of
enduring the day.
There are micro-rescues. We call them “little joys”.
The smell of clean clothes.
The sight of a tidy space when your mind feels cluttered. Something about it
steadies you.
Someone remembering your name when you’ve already assumed you were
forgettable, it tops up your confidence without asking for permission, doesn’t it?
Laughing mid-conversation and being surprised it came from you. You just pause
and go, “That was me?”
“I got my laugh back?”
These anchors are in the warm cup of tea on cold mornings. In timely calls and
unexpected texts. In random compliments that linger longer than they should. In
hugs that hold you together for a few seconds more.
You notice these things when you’ve known sorrow. People untouched by heaviness
often wait for grand happiness. People who have carried pain learn to recognise
warmth wherever it leaks through.
These flickers are proof that life keeps offering itself in fragments. And sometimes,
fragments are enough to carry us through another day.
If you have lived long enough, you know this already.
You did not make it here on strength alone.
You made it here because glimmers of light found you when nothing else could, and
quietly taught you how to stay.
Just the other day, my Father told me He loves it when I sing. He looked at me and
pointed to something I’ve always thought was small, and said He loves it.
Oh, the joy that filled me had nothing little about it.
That’s when it hit me. These joys were never small.
They are just gentle, waiting to find people who are willing to feel it…
Featured Image by susan-lu4esm from Unsplash
