This is the account of a girl waiting for a bus. She’d had quite possibly one of the worst days and weeks of her life and absolutely the hardest 6 months of her existence. It’s funny though, in a strange sort of way, how one often stares off into the distance when deep in contemplation sorting through a thousand different thoughts and feelings, and yet in the subconscious staring you begin to see things you’d never noticed before. After all, one only knows where they’re sore when they start to stretch, one only finds where they’re weak when trying to be strong. I know this girl quite well, so I’m sure she could be wrong, but I’m also sure she could be right. Let me take you to the street where this soul once sat.
As she sits waiting for the bus, time isn’t the only thing to pass her by - cars whoosh past, sending the dry auburn and pale lemony-orange leaves flying in a papery, scratchy whirl across the bitumen road. Her gaze lifts from the leaves peppering the road and up a little higher.
Beautiful burnt-orange bricks surround the enormous arched windows that are perched above her on the opposite side of the street. A man takes in the street view from inside the building, sipping from a mug as oversized as the windows and deep in contemplation of some kind - at least she thinks his thoughts must be kind; although his face is a calm guise, she’s sure this Autumnal street could surely make a man smile.
Up higher still - the moon hangs softly above the brick building, only half of its luminous face visible this fine sunny Monday morning. She cranes her neck again, looking for something higher than the delicate and diaphanous moon, not a cloud or bird in sight. She shivers then, pulling her sweater sleeves halfway down her hands as she lazily lets her eyes float back down past the bright blue sky, the half moon, the man halfway between sipping, the street half covered in leaves, and the surrounding people waiting for a bus halfway up a hill. The air is crisp for a clear day, although her numb hands tell her it’s colder than crisp and closer to quite chilly. Then she sees it coming.
The girl now pulls out her phone, after avoiding it for her brains sake, now she uses it also for her brains sake - to write. Her words start simply, it’s all she could handle as she lifts the lid off of her thoughts, but as her fingers fly across the letters on the screen, quotes and questions spill out, as they often do when emptying the cerebral can. She writes.
The bus arrives late.
The poetry arrives on time.
The joy - the joy doesn’t arrive, rather is found. Not by happenstance or by accident - the joy is in the choosing to look around rather than down at a phone. The joy unravels from one question, what’s higher and what’s greater? They say if you truly seek you’ll find, but in order to seek there needs to be intention; a question has to be asked in order to be answered. Like a man wanting a warm drink would seek water, a kettle, a mug and a flavour.Sometimes joy finds you, and other times, you have to seek her out. C.S Lewis once said if you want warmth you get close to the flame. So I guess if you want joy, get close to the source, because joy is a source, a deep well that is overflowing for those who would thirst and seek. Besides, can joy truly last if it's based on a seen circumstance if the source itself is unseen?
The girl shoves her phone back inside her pockets, her hands now starting to warm. Looking through the smudged windows of the bustling bus with way too many body odours, she thinks about the greatest sources of joy in her life. The greatest measure of joy she’d known was always in the presence of One in particular, she smiles knowing it’s true and looks at squirrels sprinting, perfect pine trees and auburn Autumn leaves. As she nears her home, gazing upon creation a thought pops in her mind, “if joy was created then joy must belong to the Creator.” I’m sure she could be wrong, but I’m also sure she could be right.