During my day, I sometimes bump into points of joy.
Like on my morning walk, I saw this bench. Imagine the joy the artist felt as he made it—a bench that wants to give you a hug.
And imagine a young girl who loves horses so much she had to fold one out of paper.
And as I was out walking I saw this woman, exercising her dogs, and the young, energetic one was fetching all the balls, and the old dog wasn’t getting any. And so, she did a fake. And threw for the old one, and sure enough, he lumbered out, and fetched it. And when he came back, the old guy said, “That’s enough for me. Thanks. Done.”
And then today I saw a coffee-shop barista accidentally shoot whip cream up her nose.
And later I looked at my lawn and saw it was full of wonderful white flowers we call “weeds.”
And now that the plague has come, and we’re house-ridden, I see my daughter signing into her computer, during her sign language class, shining grace.
And look at the spring sour grass, wearing brilliant yellow going-to-sunday-church clothes.
And this one I call the headlock. Points of Joy.
And each morning as I get up, I look at this picture of Kristin, so young, so happy, holding her heart’s desire.
And for the tenth point of joy, I include the obligatory kitten hunting ferocious under the rug.
And, as an added bonus, here’s my morning hair, standing up tall, as it decides what we’re going to do today.