You Were Meant for Joy

Our cozy Thanksgiving.

This past Thanksgiving, though different, was perfect. Because we weren’t able to invite friends or extended family, I assumed it would feel less special, less festive. Part of that was true in that I didn’t dress up or put on makeup like I ordinarily would. In other ways, the intimacy of our gathering heightened the cozy holiday feeling. 

My husband, brilliant chef that he is, cooked everything. He prepped the day before so the actual cooking part on Thanksgiving day was stress-free. My family, including my brother’s family and my parents, gathered around our dining table and toasted to the blessing of “just us”. 

The kids’ schedules worked out so that they went to bed by 7 p.m. (WOOT) and the adults stayed up chatting and having a second round of Thanksgiving dinner. The next morning, we had a long breakfast with coffee and freshly baked croissants from the local bakery. With mugs in hand, we talked about everything we missed the night before. We then went to the local Christmas tree farm and brought one back to decorate. 

I write this to you all during another great flareup of the pandemic. Where once I assumed the pandemic would be long gone by now, it seems as though we haven’t seen the worst of it yet. Here in Los Angeles county, another severe stay-at-home mandate has been issued. 

While I’m fortunate to be living with my parents at the moment and having my brother’s family nearby, I have several friends whose parents and other family members are in different states and they’ve chosen not to see one another for the last ten months to protect one another. 

If this summer seemed like the worst time for a pandemic, it now seems like an ideal time for a pandemic (if there ever was one), as the holidays are traditionally times for indoor gatherings with our loved ones amidst delicious meals and other such merriment. 

I began my blog post by sharing how surprised I was that this last Thanksgiving was joyful despite how different it was from previous years. My extended relatives couldn’t join us. Our neighbors couldn’t join us. Despite the restrictions, we decided to choose joy anyway. 

Why? Because we were meant for joy. And our lives are the channels by which we experience that joy.

I say this in such a matter-of-fact-way but the truth is, I didn’t believe it until recently. 

In my last blog post, I ended it by sharing with you a great big realization I had—that the point of our lives isn’t to prove our worth by producing or accomplishing as much as we can. But rather, the point of our lives is to receive them as gifts to experience more joy. As hard as it may be to believe, especially during this time, I want to share with you my story of how I came to learn this. 

It’s come out in bits and pieces on this blog but here’s the full story. Where to begin? Let’s start with how I grew up. 

Growing up, selfish was the worst thing I could be. There’s a Korean word, 착해 (chak-eh), that epitomizes what every human should strive to be according to traditional Korean values. There’s no precise English equivalent, though it can roughly be translated as good, of high moral character and sweet—but also with connotations of being docile, obedient, and demure. It’s almost a sin to say “no” to authority figures, especially parents, even when their requests go against what’s best for you. Best for you? What a preposterous statement in and of itself. What’s best is to obey and comply. And though I was raised in the United States, my immigrant parents carried these traditional values with them and into my upbringing. 

It wasn’t as if those values were unfamiliar in America, though, as they were reaffirmed in the churches I attended. My sole life’s purpose was to be good. Bible verses like, “Be holy for I the Lord your God am holy” (Leviticus 19:2) and “Let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in heaven” (Matthew 5:16) were repeated throughout my Sunday school classes and later became a mental refrain for me, a touchstone for the kind of person I was supposed to be: pure, perfect and inestimably good in every way. 

I took all of this in and became the model Korean daughter and Christian. I never talked back to authority figures, easily agreed with others, laughed at bad jokes, spent my college summers volunteering in poverty-stricken parts of the developing world, and received straight A’s while suppressing much of my intelligence in social settings so as to not intimidate others.

Every insecurity or sense of guilt for any kind of wrongdoing was overcompensated with diligent service towards others. And beneath most of my deeds were the questions: Do you like me now? Am I good enough for you? Can I be fully accepted? 

While my behaviors were interpreted by others as expressions of my authentic self, they were actually, as I have come to see them now, manifestations of an insatiable hunger to gain the approval of every single person around me and, of course, God’s. For me, there was no greater or more critical life goal than gaining that external approval. This was pleasing to God, I believed, as that was simply the kind of dedication God expected from all of us.

So I became a minister. To be fair, this career path wasn’t just a result of me trying to ace the holiness exam and receive an end-of-life bonus. I did genuinely have an avid curiosity about the nature of the divinity as well as an impassioned impulse to help others connect with that divinity.

After passing through the arduous and highly selective United Methodist ordination process, I was appointed to be the Senior Minister of a large congregation in San Diego with a multi-person staff, being the youngest person to ever occupy that position by two decades. Colleagues envied my status and quick rise within the competitive United Methodist clergy system.

The problem was, I didn’t want it. 

At this point, I had a 3-year-old toddler and was expecting another child. I was drained before I even arrived to my office in the mornings, much less by the evenings when I wouldn’t have the energy to speak an extra word to my husband who wanted to connect with me after a full day of work, children, and chores. I dreaded requests from congregants for visitations or meetings to talk about their struggles because I was so exhausted. I no longer wanted to feed the poor on Saturday mornings or march in protests for worthy causes.

I had fantasies of cutting off almost all of my social and ministerial responsibilities so I could just raise my children, write in the solitude of my own room, read books, live in a beautifully decorated and somewhat isolated cottage.

How indulgent. I wanted the kind of life that I deemed most selfish growing up. Caving into these base desires would mean a lower performance review in heaven, not to mention less love from God and others, a sullied reputation amongst my colleagues and, most frightening to me, a less abundant life. There seemed to be, as far as I could tell, a natural karma to the world where selfish people had less fulfilling lives. Folktales and movies like A Christmas Carol had hammered that into me since I was four. Neglecting the high demands for justice in order to get a massage didn’t only make me a bad pastor, it made me a bad person. 

In search of some kind of resolution during this taxing period of my life, I went inward instead of outward. In the past, my tendency had been to go around to each of my trusted friends and family members, with the plea, “just tell me what to do” to ease the challenge of working through my own predicaments. This time though, the stakes were too high and I needed to fully own the decision I was about to make.

So I stopped.

I quieted my mental chatter.

I listened to the still small voice of the sacred within me.

And I heard one word repeated over and over again.

Gift.

The situations would be almost identical though with different circumstances. I would be worn out by the expectations of my congregation and beating myself up for not being able to produce the results they desired. I would go on a long solitary walk and hear it: gift. I would feel anxious for putting aside my sermon preparation until Saturday evening and settle down my anxiety through prayer and I would hear it again: gift. 

Hearing this word led me to a completely different kind of theology than the one I was raised with—that life wasn’t a test to pass; It was a gift for us to enjoy. I didn’t need to keep trying to prove my worth and goodness to God and see every moment as an opportunity to do so. Worth, love, and approval were infinite, non-negotiable, and granted to me from the moment I came into being without yet having actively contributed anything to the world. 

As we approach Christmas during one of most painful and stressful times of this generation, I want you to know something that encapsulates the Christmas message. The Christmas message is all about the light coming into our hurting world and permeating it in a way a batch of cookies right out of the oven spreads throughout the entire house.

There is suffering in our world. There is anxiety, there is constant fear that we’re doing something wrong or that we aren’t enough.

You were meant for joy. 

You don't need to keep pretending to be somebody else or try to be as good as possible to be as loved as possible. You are already loved by the one who formed you before you were born and there’s nothing you can do (or not do) to lose an iota of that love. 

It’s hard these days. Choose the joy.

Decorate the tree.

Turn up the Christmas carols and dance. 

Say “no” to that obligation you don’t really want to do and you know in your heart is not aligned with your true authentic path. 

Go on a walk. 

Call that friend who’s struggling and let them know they’re in your heart. 

Cuddle with your kids.

You were meant for joy and as you choose it every day, it will permeate every space you occupy, like those cookies.

You may be thinking, “Yes, I’m all in. But I’m still unsure about what “choosing joy” looks like for me.

Well, I happen to have written an entire workbook on it. Check it out here.

Oh and that beautifully decorated and somewhat isolated cottage I fantasized about? I’m living there now.