Joy

Not the kind that is “to the world” and sung by choirs worldabout at Christmastime. The personal kind. To be experienced as a song welling up inside oneself. Yesterday the first notes came when I sat down in the bus. Almost across from me were three young children. The little girl with her father, and the two boys with their nanny.

The older boy caught my attention immediately with his curly hair, clear bright eyes, and loving kindness to his young brother sitting in a stroller. The little girl was full of mischief and good humour. And the father was in animated discussion with the nanny.

As we moved along from stop to stop the five of them were blissfully unaware of all but their own good fellowship. In my imagination I pieced together the relationships. The older boy and the girl had obviously been buddies in a day care or entry level school class. The group had met by chance on the bus. The father and nanny were immigrants I would guess. He of Asian descent, and she with roots in Africa.

The little one sat enchanted with the chatter, laughter and actions of big brother and friend. While the two adults enthusiastically swapped experiences about their journeys to this foreign shore.

French, English, smiles and laughter mingled. And joy was no abstraction. It was bubbling up within.