Heading down my street Friday morning, it dawned on me that I may have left my garage door up. The rear-view mirror reflected the black square of open space that was just as I feared; so I clicked my remote. Nothing. Clicked again. Nothing. I slowly backed up, clicking all the while; nothing. Even when I pulled to the end of the drive, removed my clicker from my visor, aimed at the door and clicked away, the door remained open. It should have. IT WAS MY NEIGHBOR’S GARAGE DOOR! Meanwhile, my peripheral vision caught the movement of MY garage door frantically going up and down. Of course, I glanced around, hoping no neighbor had observed me. Then I put the car in drive and sheepishly drove away.

 Throughout the day I’d think about myself click, click, clicking away and my garage door jerking up and down. Invariably, the image would bring a grin to my lips.--as did the other misadventures that peppered my day: Finding the newly-purchased toilet scrubber beside the flower arrangement on my kitchen counter as if it were part of the décor and catching the belt of my fuzzy, pink bathrobe in the door so that I looked like Pink Panther with his tail in a vice. These incidents had me shaking my head and giggling under my breath. But it was when I shared these antics with my neighbor that the snickers turned to guffaws. Belly-laughs. Nose-snorts. Full blown chortles.  Reliving those experiences with her enhanced the silliness and increased my joy.
While sharing magnifies delight, distributing lessens burdens. I hugged a friend of mine last night. A week ago, she buried her only daughter. As we talked, she expressed the comfort she felt knowing others were praying for her and had made themselves available to her in her time of grief. My family’s visit to someone in the hospital evoked a similar response. Likewise, men from our church who assisted the recovery efforts of nearby flood victims received profuse thanksgiving. And similar gratitude was reflected in the local newspapers as they praised Donald Trump’s visit during the crisis.

There’s something about PRESENCE that makes a difference. The simplicity of “being there” adds an element that otherwise would be missing: multiplied joy, divided pain. Something Jesus provides.

Before His crucifixion, He comforted His disciples with the revelation that He would always be with them. He foretold of the hard times they would face. He promised them that they would have trouble. This was not a sign of His absence, as some people insist. Rather, it was another dimension of fellowship with Him, for along with the guaranteed heartache was His assurance that He would be with them through the trouble. The same is true for us. The simplicity of God’s presence makes all the difference in our situations: greater joy, dispersed trouble, the multiplying and dividing that a true friend adds to the equation of our lives.

Tip/Tidbit: Stop. Sit. Inhale. Envision Jesus, for He is near, willing to share your laughter and your tears.

I got home from an extended vacation to find the weeds overtaking my flowerbed. And not just in my yard. While there was definitely the thrill of having spent time traveling with family, my return home was met with sorrows. A dear friend passed away, two other friends had major family setbacks, yet another experienced a devastating amputation, and a family member needed cancer treatment. Though the blossoms of joys I'd recently experienced were there for the viewing, these weeds blocked their visibility. A friend's sorrow has a way of sharing the space designated for personal joy. But just as the ache throbs, demanding attention, seemingly stark and ugly, the joy remains. Not just in colors of the blooming hibiscus, not only in the thrills shared with the ones we love, but also in the memories that linger, the hopes that lie ahead, and in the present comfort Jesus so freely gives.  Yes, I'd love to have a flowerbed free of weeds, a life uncluttered with trouble, uncomplicated with difficulties, but since that wouldn't be life, I choose to see the buds tucked in the shadows of the overgrowth. And I find peace and beauty in the pain.

Tip/Tidbit: Though my heart is heavy, I find reasons to hope: The thrill that my friend no longer suffers, possibilities for resolution of my friends' family issues, potential for recovery...and most of all, peace, that God is present through it all. If you, too, are experiencing heartache, look for the blossoms amid the weeds. They are there, even when they are difficult to see.