What Cannot Be Named

There is a name                                                                                                 for the color of fish that swim                                                                         on the baked enamel pots                                                                                 of the women in the village of Bambur:                                                         persimmon.

There is a name                                                                                                   for the sweet weight of water                                                                       that moves assuredly from the well                                                                 up the path, to home:                                                                                   life.

And there are names                                                                                           for young girls who carry                                                                         infant brothers and sisters on their backs,                                                       while mothers with small wooden hoes                                                     work  the fields of African maize:                                                                     Mercy, Comfort, and Rejoice.

But I cannot find a name                                                                               for what is truly here:                                                                                   one smile,                                                                                                           two bright eyes against dust and grass,                                                       and a single hand to her face–                                                                     an exclamation of?

You might name it joy,                                                                                       but it would not be enough.

Shannon Vesely

Happiness is the paler, conditional cousin to joy. Although the world professes to love happiness, to argue that “you deserve it”, and to peddle it shamelessly in every market place, its idiot claims are full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. 

Several years ago while on a mission trip to Nigeria, I witnessed many women with baked enamel pots on their heads, carrying water from the local well (if they were lucky) or the water hole, miles away (if they were less lucky). Some sang, some spoke as they passed us, and all smiled. As I look back on this photo, I realize that it would be impossible to name the expression that this woman wore. It might be joy, but even this seems wholly insufficient.

Clearly, the circumstances of these Nigerian women–like those of their men and children–are those you might expect in a third world country: poverty, pain, and suffering. Unemployment is rampant, particularly among the young. The Nigerian woman who cooked for us was the only working person in her family of seven, including her husband and five adult children. Young boys with small plastic pails stood on pavement which had broken or washed out into deep crevices. Their job? To warn motorists of the danger ahead. Their wage? Whatever naira a generous motorist might offer. And mothers took to the fields, leaving their babies to the care of their older babies. For an American, these circumstances left much to be desired. Certainly, there appeared to be little that would elicit joy here.

But joy abounded in each place we visited. Joy in the conversation with family and friends, joy in the moments of laughter and rest, joy in the promise of a meal and of shelter. In spite of their circumstances, most Nigerians found genuine joy, the kind that passes all understanding.

I often shared family stories with my students, and one day, as I was recalling a particular incident with my son, a student exclaimed, “Mrs. Vesely, you have the most exciting life ever!” To which I responded, “Well actually, Tom, I don’t. I just choose to live as though I do!”

Perhaps the most valuable thing I inherited from my parents was the will to choose joy in all circumstances. Sometime in my late twenties, I awakened to the fact that I had grown up in the lower middle class. I was stunned with this realization, for I could only recall the joy my family had chosen in our ordinary days: Sunday drives in the country, looking for abandoned farmhouses that might–just might–still have some glass or vintage doorknobs; afternoons in Harmon Park’s rock garden, creating an entire world among the trees and waterfalls; neighborhood games of kick the can and hide and seek that ran long into the evening until someone’s mom called her players in; Friday night suppers of hamburgers in front of the television; and snow forts and snow creatures that stopped passerbys with unexpected color (my mom let us use food coloring to tint the snow!) As a child, I only saw and felt the richness of our existence.

In spite of our economic circumstances, we found joy in the world around us. Now I realize that this was an act of will, of conscious daily choice. At the time, however, it seemed entirely natural and good. The painful reality that others had not, and would not, experience this joy never occurred to me. I was immersed in an ordinary life of extraordinary joy.

I do recall one morning when I was working for the public park and recreation department. It had rained the night before, and the preschoolers I was working with were not allowed to take out the balls and other equipment they usually played with because it was so muddy. The only piece of park equipment that wasn’t surrounded by a moat of mud was the merry-go-round, which–blessedly–had been mounted on a slab of cement. Cheerfully, I said, “Why don’t you pretend like the merry-go-round is your space ship?” And then I stood back, waiting for the joy of play to begin. Only, it didn’t. Twelve preschoolers looked at me with incredulity. They just stood there until I offered, “I’ll play with you. Jump on because we’re about to take off!”

On this day, I jump-started joy. It didn’t take long until we were deep in the throes of an outerspace story of epic proportions. The muddy circumstances faded into the background, and the joy of our newfound adventure overwhelmed the foreground. In the end, we all chose joy, and a morning that appeared doomed shone brightly.

Today as I think of the Syrian people, I admit that I wouldn’t blame them for succumbing to the despair that their circumstances have delivered. Still, I’m guessing that there are those in the refugee camps who, like the Nigerians I met, are choosing the joy of relationships and small moments. Some may argue that this is not enough and that these people deserve better and more. And they would be right. Yet in this world, there will be trouble. This trouble, tragically, often seems more than we can bear. To choose joy in the midst of these trials is, perhaps, one of the most courageous and faithful acts I can imagine.

One of my persistent prayers is that I may also pass on the will to choose joy to my children and grandchildren. In truth, I can think of no greater gift.

Let me hear joy and gladness; let the bones you have crushed rejoice.                         Psalm 51:8