Threads of Joy

Joy Streaming

Another stream of travelers poured through the international arrival door at Toronto’s Pearson Airport. I carefully examined the baggage to gauge if this was a long-distance flight from Europe debarking passengers overflowing with luggage, like my daughter, after four-month tenure as a university exchange student, or suntanned travelers with a single suitcase after a restful week in Cancun. I craned my neck searching for her face among the horde. Seeing she was not part of the latest exodus I relaxed noting the ache return to my lower back as I waited. After an hour of standing the concrete floors were blunt and unforgiving against my spin.

A sudden flash of movement was a welcome distraction. In complete disregard to the flow of descending passengers a small boy raced up the ramp to the exit dais. With joyous abandonment he launched himself at a man (likely his father) who rapidly detached from his luggage to receive the flying boy into his arms.

My heart squeezed, and I blinked back another pooling of tears. This was the third joyous reunion I had seen. Earlier, a pre-teen had greeted a woman and clung to her sobbing. She couldn’t stop touching the returned love one clearly trying to assure the woman was real and present.

Previously the waiting concourse laughed when a trio of small children escaped their mother’s grasp. Like the Red Sea giving way to God’s command the crowd parted as they swept across the floor with shrill shouts of “Daddy, Daddy” bouncing from the airport rafters. After peeling layers of children from his torso the man was finally able to greet his wife who, grinning ear-to-ear, was the last to give him a welcome-home hug.

By the time my daughter emerged I was going to be an emotional wreck.

Streams of Muted Joy

And when she did emerge though my reaction was less exuberant than the unbridled joy of the children, it’s beat in my heart was pure and steady. I carefully examined the much-missed face with the same awe and wonder as when I used to hold her as a baby, marveling at each delicate feature. I looked for clues in her expression. Was she okay? How was she feeling–-tired, happy, sad?

She had not expected a break-up with her back-home boyfriend before returning. Two days ago, she had likely expected him at arrivals to greet her just as when four months earlier at departures he had kissed her goodbye. I wanted to bonk him on the head for scrambling her world just as she was wrapping up affairs to come home. I didn’t blame him for falling out of love but he could have waited and done it face-to-face when she was back at home and near family.

According to European time my daughter’s internal clock was at three a.m. The only things she confessed to feeling when I embraced her was exhaustion and hunger–dinner having happened on the plane hours earlier.

As for me, like radiant sunlight breaking through dark stormy clouds, quiet beams of joy streamed through my heart as we trundled her luggage to the parking lot.

The Bitter Sweet Taste of Joy

Three days after Christmas my husband’s eighty-seven-year-old aunt passed away. She was his mother’s youngest sibling; the last of three sisters. An unexpected death but quick and merciful. She departed with a grace that characterized her life.

And although I cried when overhearing the telephone conversation relaying the news, my tears were bitter-sweet with amazement. On Boxing Day, we had celebrated with both sides of our extended families. It never happened this way. Generally, the gatherings were separate but this time the aunts, uncles and cousins blended together in one place.

And Aunt Julia, elegant as always, sat in a wheelchair enjoying the evening in her own quiet way. A gentle joy permeated the warm and intimate exchanges that flowed as relatives and friends chatted with her.

Soon after her arrival I broke from my hostess duties. Although elderly she was still beautiful, the texture of her skin soft and smooth under the brush of my lips as I gently kissed her cheek in welcome.

“I am so happy you could come today,” I said while holding her hand.

Similar to my mother, Aunt Julia, was one of only a few remaining from her era. Born in the 1930s they had grown up during World War II–one in England and the other in Poland. Soon we will forget their stories, I thought, and lose our connection to an incredible transformational time in world history and the roots of our own families’ histories. Oh, how I wanted to hang on for as long as possible.

I gently released Julia’s hand to resume my duties.

Joy for a Life Well Lived

The quiet strength through which Aunt Julia lived her life continued to impress at the luncheon gathering after the grave site prayers. Her daughter-in-law reflected to me that no matter how difficult the circumstances Julia never complained. And there were times warranting complaint, but she chose to embrace life circumstances always in the affirmative. I recalled one of Aunt Julia’s stories.

With increasing mobility issues two years earlier, she reasoned her big house had become too much to manage on her own and settled into an assisted-living residence. Her observation of the social dynamics within the residence was a first indicator of the impact of her presence on its occupants. In a dining room full of white faces, she noticed no one sat to dine with a disabled black woman.

“I am going to sit with that woman,” was her immediate resolution.

And she did.

The morning of Aunt Julia’s funeral mass celebrated at the local Polish Catholic church, I noticed a black woman in what looked to be a wheelchair bed with several attendants around her. Someone pointed her out.

“That’s Aunt Julia’s best friend and people from the residence.”

The staff at the residence had assured Aunt Julia’s best friend was on hand to say goodbye to her friend.

Julia Huczek
February 28, 1931 – December 28, 2018

How right this human beacon, mirroring a friendship offered with no judgment, her presence this time across a table ready for Eucharist in a final joyful celebration for a life well lived.

Threads of Joy

When love infuses interactions how lovely become our connections. Human touches of kindness, compassion and caring weave threads of joy binding us heart to heart.