By Jenny Morris
Years ago, when I was world weary and praying for the Rapture, joy fought a falling action in my heart. I was disappointed in life, disappointed in religion, but mainly disappointed in the flesh God made that walked around me.
When it became obvious that Jesus wouldn’t show up on the dates I kept mentally circling on my calendar, I found peace with my present and turned my prayers to other needs.
But no matter how many mornings I woke, past tears had so thoroughly salted the ground of my heart that joy wouldn’t grow.
Lurking at the corners of my mind, this joy-absence began to worry me. According to the actuary charts, I might face decades of earthly life. Would they all contain this dull ache?
I still heard God’s voice and was convinced of His love. But as if I were missing one of my spiritual senses, I could no longer perceive joy whether it was there or not.
Then Crissa came to teach my Sunday School class. A stellar teacher now, in the beginning, she wasn’t even that good. But God kept telling me that she wasn’t there for me to hear. She was there for me to see.
As I looked, I realized that here was another battle-scarred heart and siege survivor.
But oddest of all, when I saw this 21st century Caucasian woman, all I could think of was a first century Semitic man.
I recently learned that Crissa is moving to another church in another town. In saying goodbye, I will speak my gratitude to her, and she will probably brush it aside. She’s humble that way. But once, when I looked at Crissa, I saw Jesus, and joy launched an offensive. It’s been reclaiming occupied territory ever since.