joy: n. a feeling of great happiness or pleasure

“I’d like one of your “Big Dogs” with mustard, mayo, ketchup, relish, and onions, please.” 

I had placed this same order before with the young man at the local food cart. He and his dad, the one who prepared them, knew I wouldn’t be eating at one of the nearby tables. They readied a bag so I could take it with me.

Hot dog paid for and in hand, I told them, “Know that this is going to bring a great deal of pleasure to someone who cannot leave her home.”

The comment was not overstated. It was factual.

I planned to take it to my invalid, housebound friend. A former teacher who taught children with challenges, she once lived a fulfilled, active, and well-rounded life. Now, unable to care for herself, she depends on the help of others for daily existence. Life grinds on, with long, difficult days and nights. In addition, her appetite has diminished. Her clothes hang on her frail, tiny body. Joy does not pay regular visits to her world.

An earlier conversation set the stage when I told her of my love for a really good hot dog. I even order them when eating out, and I’ll choose them over a steak any time . . . as long as they’re a really good one. I told her about the food cart located in front of the nearby hardware store that sells the best hot dogs.

“I love hot dogs!” she exclaimed, her entire face brightening.

“I’ll tell you what,” I offered. “I’ll bring you one tomorrow.” I hoped I could give her something to look forward to.

She agreed. I took her order, writing it down, wanting to make certain all the condiments were exactly to her liking.

The next day, I headed for the food cart and placed the order. Delivery to her home didn’t take long, so the “dawg” was still hot and fresh. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone relish and enjoy a food item as much as she did. Opening her mouth wide enough to get a bite of the good-sized frankfurter and bun was a task. But she did it–over and over again until nothing remained, not even crumbs. Pure enjoyment and satisfaction completed the picture as she settled back into her chair.   

Ever since, when I visit, she quietly says, with a sly smile on her face, “I’m hungry for a hot dog.” She knows there’s no way I can ignore her hint. At this point in her life–a very restricted way of life–one of those hot dogs brings her great joy. While it’s no compensation for all she’s given up, her smile says it all.

Many times, those in the Christian faith feel they must be part of a planned program that has a specific goal or purpose/mission. Perhaps a concern for children might be its base. Others have a heart for the indigent and homeless, while some carry a burden for those in prison or who live with addictions. Those folk are their focus.

I do not minimize any who live their faith out in concert with God, our Heavenly Father. For me, I have never been able to narrow my life to pursue or describe it in such a manner.

Many years ago, I wrestled with God, trying to find my niche, where I fit in His plan and Kingdom, what He wanted me to do. His response: “All I have asked you to do is to live your life.”

And so, I was reminded of that once again when I brought my friend a hot dog–something she was unable to do for herself. Who knew a lowly hot dog could bring such joy?

Life with God isn’t necessarily about being part of an organized program; it is about the little things.

Listen to your inner, still, small voice. Listen to the voices of those around you. Hear them. And follow through.

You never know the joy you may be able to deliver.