By Joy Harper (as told by Michelle Lynn Brown)
I sat curled up on the couch this morning with my signature coffee cup, the Bible open on my iPad, and emptiness all around me. Pastor Nate had to leave early this morning to visit a sick church member in the hospital. His chair sat empty. Over the years, I’ve become accustomed to the unexpected trips, interrupted plans, and empty chairs.
But this morning, the emptiness was oppressive. I can see him sitting there, his worn Bible on his lap, his glasses perched on his nose. He pauses, looks over at me with a half smile and says, “My Joy from the Lord is my strength.” His altered version of Nehemiah 8:10 always emphasizes my name, like it’s both a verse and an endearment. He says it softly and with such affection that it still makes my heart skip, even after all these years of ministry, moves, and Mondays. It’s his way of saying, you’re my reminder of God’s goodness – my gift of Joy from the Lord.
But lately, that verse feels less like a sweet endearment and more of a slogan I’m gritting out through my teeth.
This season has stretched me in ways I didn’t expect. Sending our youngest off to college in Atlanta was supposed to feel like a victory lap – our youngest reaching for her dreams, my oldest fulfilling hers. I thought I was ready. I packed the boxes for both of my girls, shopped with my youngest for dorm decorations, and smiled for the pictures. But instead, it felt like I was packing up pieces of my heart in those boxes. There are nights I count the miles between me and my daughters instead of counting my blessings.
The new house comes with a foreign silence, even when Nate is practicing his sermons, his gentle voice echoing down the hallway with words of Godly wisdom that I wish would help fill the void and ease the pain that seeps into the ordinary things of the day. I still catch myself setting out four plates at breakfast before realizing my girls aren’t coming down the stairs. There are times when the silence settles over the house, like now, and it feels oppressive.
Ministry doesn’t slow down just because life shifts, but sometimes I feel that ache under the surface—the ache of a mother whose work is changing shape. The laughter in our house has been replaced with long-distance calls, too infrequent text message updates, and prayers whispered across an empty table.
But here is what the Lord taught me this morning.
Silence isn’t the same as emptiness. God’s presence still fills this place—fills me—even when my hands are idle and my children are gone.
His joy is not the same as my happiness. Happiness comes and goes with the noise of a busy home, but joy—real joy—roots itself in who God is, not what life looks like. It steadies me when I’m lonely. It holds me when I can’t hold my children. It fills the quiet places with peace.
So, when life grows quieter, lean into the Lord’s joy—it doesn’t fade with the seasons; it deepens through them.