Surprised by Joy

I’m having a bit of a moment here.

Sitting in a cafe near Broadcasting House, after talking on the radio about my Dad. The reaction from listeners has been incredible, way beyond the usual. People talking about how it reminded them of their parents, or their partners. How they’re in tears on the school run, in the office, walking the dog, thinking. Feeling. Connecting.

The texts are being passed on to me, it’s humbling. Is that the right word? I’m writing this on the hop, as it happens. I mean that it feels like a privilege.

It’s a funny thing, to try and come up with something to say that might help people through their day, then to travel in the dark, go through all the security palaver and be accompanied up to the right floor, making small talk with a lovely human who is absurdly bright and friendly for that time of the morning. They offer coffee, then after a little while usher you through to the studio, where Scott Mills is going through the cues, but looks up and is welcoming, friendly, assured. Makes you feel safe.

“What you’re sharing this morning is going to resonate with a lot of people,” he says, on air.

“Over to you.”

Big breath. Here goes.

“A year ago, my Dad was struggling.

His heart was failing, he barely got out of the house, but on a visit to see him I decided that - however difficult it was - I'd get him to the pub.

We hadn't been for a long time, but after careful, lengthy preparation, after driving 500 yards round the corner to the King's Head, I was able to park near the entrance, help Dad get out and walk him to a warm, cosy corner of a place where they knew him and were friendly.

Just being in the boozer with half a pint of his favourite beer, as if everything was normal again, brought him comfort and even a small measure of healing.

In those days he barely ate, mostly surviving on protein shakes, but the menu had one of his favourites, a treat we first shared when I was kid, so just for old times’ sake I asked if he fancied some whitebait.

“I’ll give it a go,” he said, surprisingly.

I have a photograph of him eating a tiny, crispy fish with a look on his face of pure pleasure as the taste exploded in his mouth. He showed joy, in a way I had not seen for a while.

He laughed and swallowed a bit more beer to wash it down and we sat there for another hour, father and son, shooting the breeze like the old days, like a last supper.

It was worth all the effort of getting Dad there.

He’s been gone a year and I miss him terribly, but he’s still teaching me, even now: the gift of life is that you can cry and laugh in the same day.

However tough the times, joy may still be found, even if it’s in the taste of a morsel of food you love.

Jesus told his mates to remember him when they ate bread and drank wine, because friendship and togetherness and joy are beautiful and celebrating them is an act of resistance

Or as Dad would say: “Hold on to the good stuff mate, it will help you through.””

You can listen to this on BBC Sounds if you like, by going to the Scott Mills breakfast show and scrolling to around 7.15am. It will be up as a Pause for Thought clip later and I will share that. I can’t share the responses with you, I don't have permission. I’m still digesting them, anyway. But an old friend posted on my timeline though, a profound and moving message.

This was the song they played afterwards. Gulp.

Here’s the photograph of Dad.

Toi Derricotte is an African American poet who says in a collection she wrote after her father died that joy is an act of resistance.

Michelle Obama likes to quote her.

You might recognise the title I’ve used here from the book by CS Lewis or the poem by Wordsworth.

Savouring joy is also part of the brahmaviharas, the four sublime attitudes of Buddhism.

Thanks for reading. Lastly, a question. Not rhetorical. Where do you find joy?