Joy, Happiness and Hope

As it is for many couples, gift-giving never came easily to my husband and me. At most holidays we were so preoccupied with what to give our kids, parents, siblings and teachers, that our gifts to each other were typically an afterthought; the low point was the year he gave me the movie “The Ringer” on DVD for Mother’s Day. To this day, I don’t know what that was about.

But the year after my husband had his first heart attack, I remember spending weeks trying to figure out the perfect Valentine’s Day gift to give him. With medical expenses and unexpected time off work, money was tight. A heartfelt note that expressed how much I truly loved and appreciated him probably would have been best, but at that time, it was difficult to say those words out loud. To tell him how much he meant to me would have required admitting to myself just how much was at stake if I lost him.

Valentine’s Day arrived and alas, I was still empty handed; cupid’s arrow of inspiration had yet to arrive. Jeff, on the other hand, had found a large Garfield the Cat pop-up card that somehow managed to perfectly capture our marriage and his devotion to me. Which made me feel like an even bigger shmuck for not having anything for him.

It was a typical Valentine’s Day in a family household, with school that day, a kid’s ballet class that evening and some form of totally uninspiring salad hastily consumed in between. As I drove my daughter home from her dance class late that night, red glowing hearts from a nearby White Castle caught my eye.

I remembered how passionately my husband had lobbied to get me to eat there with him one Valentine’s Day. For those who are unfamiliar, this unassuming, greasy burger joint transforms itself one night a year with candles and decorations. Jeff, who was a life-long slider devotee, had always dreamed of sharing a romantic candlelit dinner there.

I impulsively pulled into the drive-thru line and ordered him a couple of sliders and a tiny sack of fries. When I saw the look of joy on my husband’s face when I walked in carrying that bag, I thought of the eight long months that had passed since his heart attack. All the times that I denied him his favorite foods. All the moments that I kept him from doing the things that he loved, like running on a trail or carrying one of our kids. All out of fear. All out of a desire to add days to our time together. Ultimately, I had been robbing him of those days instead.

I wasn’t simply looking for a way to take care of him; I was looking for a way to assure myself that he would be okay. That I could sleep at night because he was safe. That he would wake up the next morning. That he would come home from work the next night. That he would make it through the next run.

n the midst of all this, I came across a photo of our last trip to Walt Disney World. A look of carefree joy beamed from my husband and daughter’s faces. And I wondered how we’d ever feel that type of happiness again. I remember someone telling me, “You might not be happy again in this life, but maybe in the next.” As a Christian, I understood and appreciated what he was trying to tell me. But as a human being who somehow had to get out of bed every morning and take care of a husband and three kids, it was devastating to hear.

But somehow, day by day, I loosened my grip on those fears, and laughter and new adventures took their place. There were more happy moments. There were happy weeks. There were happy months. There were even happy years.

Since the second heart attack that claimed his life two years ago, I have found myself facing those same questions again. I have a thousand fears, but perhaps the greatest one is that we’ll never be completely happy again.

For the first year after his death, I spent countless hours every week pouring through photos that I had taken of the kids before they lost their father and comparing them to photos we’ve taken since. I kept asking myself, “Do they look as happy now as they did then?” Honestly, no. But as time passes, I realize there were hundreds of moments of happiness after his first heart attack that were completely unexpected. And I am certain that there are more to come.

I read an article this week that postulated that as Christians, we have become too preoccupied with being happy, pointing to the story of Job as evidence, and that we should be striving to be better people, not happier people. Perhaps that’s true, to an extent; the loss I’ve experienced has certainly made me more aware of the suffering of those around me, and more motivated to do something about it. But in the long term, to continue to care for one another the way God calls us to do requires happiness, or at least faith that we will be happy again one day. While the Bible is rife with stories of people who endured suffering, it is also filled with passages like, “Make a joyful noise unto the Lord, all the earth; make a loud noise, and rejoice, and sing praise.” God gives us ample reasons to be joyful, from the beauty of our earth to the love and support of our friends and family. I believe that God gives us the necessary tools to fulfill his plan for each of our lives, and perhaps the most powerful of those tools are joy, happiness and hope.