I'm seven years old, and I've got joy like a fountain.
At least, I'm supposed to...it's supposed to bubble up, making me light and bright and filled with giddy thoughts about how much Jesus loves me.
I should skip and feel the rays of sunshine on my face, and I should smile all the time and be filled with All.The.Joy! of my life in Christ, because that is how Christians are supposed to be.
The trouble is, I'm not like that. I try to be- I try so hard!- but when I ask my mother, "Am I lighthearted and lively, Mom?" she kind of puts her lips together in a funny way that might mean she's trying not to laugh at me and says, "Well, I think if you want to be lighthearted and lively, you could try to work on that."
It's bad when even your mom knows you don't have joy like a fountain, isn't it?
Maybe it's the early loss of my dad.
Maybe it's growing up in a family of funeral directors.
Maybe it's just that melancholic temperament of mine.
Whatever it is, I have accepted it.
I'm thirty-six, and I've got joy like a fountain.
I might not ever bubble over with the joy of my salvation, y'all. My joy might not ever spill over and splash passers-by. It might not ever light up my face and brighten the dark corners of my closets. I'm probably not going to open my kitchen window and burst into song and have bluebirds come light on my arms, either.
But that doesn't mean I don't have joy like a fountain.
Maybe my fountain is just a way down deep one, one that sits at the very core of who I am, running quietly below the surface. Maybe my joy is in the dark, hidden places inside me that run on calmly when the world up here is falling apart. Maybe my joy is the silent assurance that no matter how bad things look today, there is hope that they're going to get better.