A Letter on Joy in Small Moments
My Dearest Friend,
Some days, joy does not arrive in sweeping gestures or perfectly framed photographs—it slips quietly into the edges of our lives. It comes in the squeal of laughter when Bean demands another round of “spins,” her curls flying as she twirls around the kitchen in my arms or Beloved’s. It lingers in the weight of Bun pressed against me as his voice insists, "just one more chapter before bed," and I relent because I know he won’t be little forever and all too soon he will stop asking me to read to him all together. It even hums in the clatter of dishes after dinner when, without a word, every hand begins to help. And in the afternoons, when Bun pedals down the block to play with friends, laughter carrying behind him as his bike speeds away, I find myself smiling at the steady rhythm of a childhood that is both ordinary and precious. These are not glamorous moments, yet they feel like the heartbeat of our home—steady, grounding, and alive.
Military life often tempts us to hold out for the next big thing: the PCS that might finally bring us closer to family, the long-awaited homecoming, the holiday where every chair at the table is filled. But if we keep our gaze fixed only on those horizons, we risk overlooking the treasures scattered in the present. When I look back on these years, it is not the orchestrated celebrations that linger—it is the everyday moments, like kids piling into our garage after school to play, family walks as the sun dips low, or neighbors gathered in the driveway, chalk dust on our children's hands while conversation drifts unhurried into the night. These are the snapshots that stay with me, the sweetness of children who have no idea how much they anchor me, and neighbors whose presence makes the distance from family a little less sharp.
The Lesson
Joy is not a grand destination we stumble upon someday—it is a choice to notice what is already here. When we give weight to small moments, they become extraordinary. This joy is not delicate; it endures interruptions, deployments, and even the ache of waiting. It is resilient, woven into the quiet moments we are tempted to dismiss.
To the Spouse Who Struggles to Find Joy
If joy feels far from reach, take heart—you are not missing out. You are not alone in this longing, and you are not failing for finding the everyday hard to embrace. But know this, the beauty of your life is not measured only by milestones, but by the glimmers strung through ordinary days. The bedtime giggles, the squeak of bike tires down the block, the warmth of your first sip of tea, the neighbor’s laughter drifting into your driveway, the friend who sends a text at just the right moment—these are not filler scenes. They are the substance of a life that is already meaningful, already threaded with joy. Claim them. They are yours to hold onto, steady reminders that joy can be found right where you are.
