Irony Becomes Her

The scent of joy

On the bus the other day, I smelled something.

It was a man's cologne -- not splashed on to cover up the unshowered smell which is the general character of bus air, but applied as part of an apparently meticulous grooming process. I didn't even look straight at the young man, but I saw his overall neat and professional appearance and my heart warmed and swelled with appreciation. A man who gives a hoot! Joy, joy, joy!

Most of the men I know are pretty good about this. But (sorry, guys), familiarity breeds contempt, and it was a fresh source of pleasure to see such a quality in a stranger. We, the deserving recipients of the coveted "Why isn't a nice girl like you married?" prize, can't help noticing when we encounter someone with even one of the qualities which is important to us in a man. As I inhaled that cologne on the stuffy bus, this impression was unusually strong.

It made me remember.

Only a few months ago, I was sure a certain pure type of joy had gone out of life for good. I distinctly remember how certain music on certain mornings would affect me as a youth; Keith Green would get into my blood and the only conceivable response was to dance about the house. Christmas carried a distinct delight which had little to do with presents or food. Saturday mornings, my brothers and I would stampede into Mom and Dad's room to urge them to get up for our weekly family "big breakfast" -- there was nothing better in the vast universe God created, and I'm pretty sure He would agree with me.

After having my heart broken by a nonexistent man I had briefly conjured out of the body and mind of my boyfriend, love, life, God, joy, were grey, numb and far, far away.

Oh, I could go on all right. Happiness of many kinds remained: work, accomplishment, the love of family and friends. But pure joy -- that uncontrollable bubbling that doesn't submit to description or explanation, was interred, complete with headstone and epitaph. It was nice while it lasted, but not advisable to think about too often; memories of that childhood feeling only brought into sharp relief the depth of the loss.

And little by little, like a scent permeating a room or the insensibly strengthening light of the dawn, joy returned: genuine, sweet, wholesome, and growing. I've felt it running; I've felt it in a hospital room; I've felt it when I heard the good news of others' growing faith -- for it spreads with human contact. I'd risk swine flu a thousand times over to be a carrier of that contagion.

It has nothing to do with the bare-bones facts of my life. I lost the job I loved, money is tight, my dad has brain cancer, I'm still getting older and still haven't found the love of which I had conjured a cheap substitute.

That's what convinces me that this is real resurrection, my friends. It is life inexplicably and inexorably growing out of dead things. Read this wonderful story and savor the contrast between despair and hope beyond imagination.

“Were not our hearts burning within us while He was speaking to us on the road, while He was explaining the Scriptures to us?”

"But thanks be to God, who always leads us in triumph in Christ, and manifests through us the sweet aroma of the knowledge of Him in every place. For we are a fragrance of Christ to God among those who are being saved and among those who are perishing" (2 Corinthians 2:14-15).

posted by Lynn @ 6:42 AM