My prayer life had become an endless loop of confession. Like Paul in Romans: “I do not do the good I want, but the evil I do not want is what I keep on doing.”
I’ve suffered lots of failures. Lots. But where was the joy?
I looked and looked.
Nothing.
Thought and feeling merged into a single, devastating realization: “Maybe I didn’t deserve joy.”
Then God interrupted my doubts and fears with chalk and wonder.
It happened on an ordinary walk. Down my usual trail—tree-lined streets giving way to forest, a blacktopped spiral descending into a two-mile paved path through tall pines and creeks and wooden bridges.
Most days I walk with my wife. This time I’d gone alone, carrying the same questions I’d been wrestling with for weeks: How do you find joy in ordinary moments? In disappointments? In suffering?
At the bottom of that spiral, I asked the Spirit directly: Show me how to find and celebrate joy…in all things.
And He did—in a way He knew I would understand and fully appreciate.
What happened next only makes sense if you know about my childhood obsession. Back to 1985.
As a kid, I would sneak out of the bathroom window of our small, ranch-style home and climb up onto the roof. For hours I’d lie on my back, gazing up at the night sky. Summer or winter—didn’t matter.
That vast, black canvas dotted with hundreds of twinkling lights had a way of putting everything in perspective. Orion and his belt. The Big Dipper. All nine planets, plus the moon, no larger than my thumbnail. I’d close my eyes and imagine visiting each one.
Returning to the real world, I’d check out every astronomy book from the library, mesmerized by the photographs.
I joined the Planetary Society in 1992. Still a member today.
Carl Sagan was my hero. I had all his books. Pale Blue Dot, Contact, Cosmos. I owned all of his VHS tapes. My dad and I watched Cosmos, his award-winning television series, more times than I can count. I even convinced myself that Carl and I were kindred spirits. After all, we shared a birthday.
In college I attempted majoring in astronomy, only to discover it was intensely mathematical when all I wanted was to gaze up and ponder mysteries.
So there I was, stepping onto that familiar trail, having just asked the Spirit to help me find and celebrate joy. I looked down and saw something that made me laugh out loud. That sudden laugh of recognition when something unexpected hits you just right.
Beneath my feet, a chalk drawing of a gray, circular disk with the word “Mercury” printed in careful block letters beside it.
Several feet further: Venus. Then Earth.
Someone—a child, I assumed—had recreated our entire solar system, drawn to scale in feet rather than miles.
As I continued my walk, Jupiter appeared, then Saturn, Uranus, and Neptune. Each separated by the kind of careful spacing that mimicked the vast distances of space, compressed now into a neighborhood walking path.
All I could think about was my childhood wonder on that rooftop, and the wonder of this child who, likely with a parent’s help, had created this beautiful piece of sidewalk art. And here I was, getting to stumble upon it, getting to experience that same sense of awe I’d felt as a boy.
That was joy.
It isn’t always loud or obvious. Sometimes it’s quietly recognizing that the same God who hung the stars also delights in a child’s creativity and orchestrates divine appointments between His searching children and the very answers they need.
The solar system will wash away with the next rain. But the reminder it gave me will last: joy is all around us, waiting to be discovered by those who have eyes to see and hearts open to wonder.
Maybe it’s drawn in chalk.
It’s probably closer than you think.
And today? Joy might be waiting for you.
Photo by Alex Alvarez on Unsplash
