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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Popluation 1,778

There’s a small little beach town, barely visible on a United States map, tucked under Alabama’s southernmost coastline and located on a small island separated by the Mobile Bay. Population 1, 778.

Once on the island, one can drive from the east to the west in about 10 minutes. One can stand on the back porch of a beach house and see the calm waters of the Bay while simultaneously watching the choppy waves of the Gulf of Mexico wash up on the sandy shore. One might even consider quitting her job and moving to the town for early retirement if one could convince her husband it is a good idea.

Some people say that the entire island might be washed away one day by a major hurricane, but that doesn’t seem to worry the people of the town. They have been living there for hundreds of years and a little storm or two is not going to scare them off. Camille, Frederic, Georges, Ivan, Katrina, Ida – the locals can rattle them off like a list of outlaw cousins. They return every time, because, well, home is home. No matter what happens. 

So on this tropical day in June, the shopkeepers at Greer’s, the local grocery and hardware store, are stocking their shelves with the necessities. And by necessities, I mean any type of salad made with mayonnaise – Macaroni Salad, Egg Salad, Potato Salad, Pimento and Cheese Salad, Chicken Salad, Salad of the Sea. No one is worried about the upcoming Hurricane season, only that there might not be enough sweet tea at the annual flea market sale this weekend hosted by the Episcopalians. 

As the shopkeepers are busy lining cans on the shelves, an elderly woman stumbles and falls in the milk and creamer aisle. She seems disoriented and can’t quite make it to her feet. Several employees rush over to her and decide to call the local paramedics, just in case. Emergency personnel arrive quickly. One young man in a blue uniform bends over the lady and politely asks her what her name is. She politely asks him what his name is. Then she tells him that she is just fine and if he would give her a cigarette, she would be even better. “Ma’am” the young man responds slowly, “You don’t look fine. You’re on the floor at Greer’s.”

“This isn’t the first time this has happened to her,” a store clerk whispers to the customers as they squeeze around the stretcher to get their 2% milk. “Bless her heart,” he adds quickly. 

Meanwhile, the local Episcipalions are in a frenzy of preparation for the flea market sale to benefit the church mission. Two hundred chicken salad sandwiches need to be made, plus more chicken salad for their “to-go” customers. With tea and lemonade, plus home-made bread and butter pickles, it’s all hands on deck. Women and men of all ages pitch in to make the weekend a success. Cissy dons her “Have you hugged an Episcipalion today?” apron and everybody knows it’s time to get to work. She only wears that apron when it’s serious. 

Tourists and locals mingle through the arts and crafts booths, vintage wares, and garage sale treasures. Kids ride their bikes up and down the street that not only holds the Episcipal church, but the Baptist and Catholic churches as well. Brown pelicans soar over the crowd and seagulls wait impatiently for crumbs from the sandwiches. Necks are hugged. All two hundred chicken salad sandwiches are consumed. Priceless items are found and sold. Stories are exchanged. Smiles abound. 

It seems like the perfect summer day on the little island snuggled under Alabama’s coast. As the waves lap gently on the sandy shore, as the sun beams down from a blue sky, as the church bells toll and as sailboats glide on the glassy ocean, one might be tempted to think she has found paradise. But the locals know better. There’s no such thing as a perfect day and the only paradise to be found is when we cross those pearly gates. 

What they do know is this – that there’s two choices they can make in this little town. To wake up and thank the Good Lord for another day on this earth, to hug necks at the Episcopal flea market, to help an old lady who stumbled and fell at Greer’s, and to savor every last bite of those magical chicken salad sandwiches. 

The other choice is, well, to not do any of those things and one day slowly cease to live. 

And I guess one doesn’t have to live on a tiny island to figure out that we all have those two choices in life. It’s not that complicated, really. There’s no perfect life or perfect job or perfect town. There’s just people and life and happy days and sad days. We can either love it or hate it. But whatever you decide, remember it’s your choice and no one else’s. 

Life has to be lived, one way or another. Maybe how you do it is the lesson that the locals in this town have figured out. 

And for me? Well I think I’ll go hug an Episcopalian and find a chicken salad sandwich. 

I’d love for you to join me. 

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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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