Little Wren Writes

I am suspicious of people who don’t like birthday cake.

There. I’ve said it.

I love celebrations. I love ridiculous decorations, themed parties (especially dress ups!), endless amounts of yummy food, people crowded around tables chatting and laughing, presents chosen because someone remembered something tiny you mentioned six months ago, beautiful little messages in cards, and that particular moment when everyone sings Happy Birthday at slightly different speeds.

I love laughter that gets completely out of control; musicals that are unnecessarily dramatic; discovering something new and immediately needing to tell six people about it.

I love the kind of joy that makes you think, for just a moment,
“Life is really, really good.”

And I don’t think we talk about that kind of joy enough. Christians are quite good at talking about joy when life is difficult…

“The joy of the Lord is my strength.”
“Consider it pure joy when you face trials.”
“Rejoice in suffering.”

All true. All important.

But sometimes joy is just…

Joy.

Sometimes the food tastes incredible. Sometimes the sunset is ridiculous. Sometimes your friend says something so funny that tea comes out your nose. Sometimes the baby giggles. Sometimes your favourite song comes on at exactly the right moment. Sometimes somebody you love walks through the door. Sometimes you stand somewhere beautiful and think,

“God, you really didn’t have to make it this lovely.”

And yet He did. I think God likes joy. Actually, I think He invented it. Taste buds were His idea. So were sea otters. And blueberries. And music. And the strange little human reflex that makes us laugh until our stomachs hurt.

The first miracle Jesus performed wasn’t something terribly serious and religious. He made wine for a wedding. More wine. At a party. Because the God who created us knows that celebration is part of being alive.

And I love that!

But joy has an awkward neighbour – jealousy.
And I’d rather not write about jealousy.

Joy makes me sound delightful. Jealousy makes me sound petty. But jealousy turns up anyway. Usually when someone else gets something I desperately wanted.

Someone announces a pregnancy.
Someone’s relationship is flourishing.
Someone gets the opportunity I wanted.
Someone seems effortlessly good at something I’ve worked incredibly hard to do.
Someone is living a version of life that looks suspiciously like the one I once imagined for myself.

And suddenly their joy hurts.

That’s an uncomfortable sentence to write. Because I want to be the person who celebrates wholeheartedly.

I want my immediate reaction to be,
“That’s wonderful! I’m so happy for you!”

Sometimes it is. Sometimes it isn’t. Sometimes my first thought is,

“Why them?”

Or worse:

“Why not me?”

I don’t particularly like that version of myself and for a long time, I thought the Christian response was simply to squash it. Stop being jealous. Be grateful. Celebrate them.

Move on.

But I’m beginning to think jealousy deserves a little more curiosity than that. Not permission to run the show. But enough attention to ask:

What are you telling me that I want?

Because jealousy is often desire wearing an ugly coat. Underneath “Why do they get that?” might be:
“I want to be chosen too.”

Underneath jealousy of someone’s family might be:
“I really wanted one of my own.”

Underneath jealousy of someone’s success might be:
“I want to know that what I do matters.”

Underneath jealousy of someone’s friendships might be:
“I want to feel wanted.”

Jealousy can reveal things I’m too embarrassed, frightened or disappointed to say out loud. And once I’ve named the longing underneath it, I can do something much better than pretending it isn’t there.

I can bring it to God.
“This is what I wanted.”
“This is what hurts.”
“I’m happy for them, Lord. I really am. But I’m sad for me.”

Those two things can be true at once.

Growing in love doesn’t mean never feeling that sting. I need to keep learning not to make someone else smaller because their happiness brushes against my hurt.

Their joy is not evidence of God’s rejection of me.

There isn’t a limited supply of goodness.
Someone else’s beautiful life doesn’t mean mine has been forgotten. I need to remember that. Often.

And then there is the other side of joy – receiving my own!

I’ve realised I’m sometimes strangely hesitant about that too.

When you’ve known seasons of grief, joy can feel risky. You know now how quickly things can change. You know beautiful things don’t always last. Sometimes you catch yourself enjoying something and immediately wonder when it will be taken away.

But I don’t want fear of losing good things to stop me loving them while they’re here.

I want to eat the cake.
Take the photo.
Sing too loudly.
Buy the flowers.
Celebrate the birthday.
Go somewhere beautiful.
Laugh until I cry.
Tell people I love them while they’re still here to hear it.

Scripture doesn’t give us a God who reluctantly allows pleasure. It gives us a God who fills creation with goodness and repeatedly tells His people to feast, celebrate, remember and rejoice. The writer, James, calls Him the giver of every good and perfect gift. Jesus talks about His joy being in us and our joy being complete. The Psalms are full of shouting and singing and instruments and feasting and delight.

Christian joy isn’t pretending sadness doesn’t exist. But neither should sadness make us suspicious of joy.

We are allowed to enjoy being alive.

And when jealousy appears in the middle of someone else’s joy, I don’t have to hate myself for that either. I can notice it. Name the longing underneath it. Bring that longing honestly before God. And then, sometimes with a little effort, turn back towards my friend and say, “This is beautiful. I’m glad this happened for you.”

I think that’s one of the quiet ways love grows; not by becoming people who never want anything but by becoming people who can hold our own longings without resenting someone else’s gifts. So I’m learning to pay attention to both.

Joy asks: “What goodness can I receive today?”
Jealousy asks: “What longing do I need to name?”
And I think both questions can lead somewhere useful.

And when joy does arrive – mine or someone else’s – I want to get better at letting it be joy. No analysing it. No waiting for the other shoe to drop. No apologising for it.

Just gratitude. Just delight. Just cake.

“Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights.” — James 1:17