Guest Author - Terrie Lynn Bittner

I’m reading a remarkable book called Finding Faith in the Desert by Anthony W. Horton, an LDS man who served as a military chaplain in Iraq. (See next week’s column for the review.) One paragraph caught my attention as I read:

“Adam did fall, and he fell that we might be, and in our being, we are offered joy, but we must choose the joy offered in order to receive it, and in our choosing, we must become different towards others and ourselves.”

I stopped reading and began to contemplate the idea of choosing joy. I think often we just assume God will give it to us, without any effort on our part and then feel disappointed when we don’t automatically feel it all the time. This sentence was part of a discussion on faith vs. works as the saving grace, and just as we must make some effort in order to return to our Father, we must also make an effort to accept any gift he gives us.

My mind went to my little Primary students, ages three to five. These children choose joy every day of their lives. It’s an intentional choice for them, and I suspect I can find no better teachers for the subject of choosing joy than them. I can tell them again and again to walk quietly down the hallway with their arms folded, but their hearts are so full of joy, they skip. They choose joy, and while I will continue to remind them, because it’s what they must someday learn, I recognize the joy in their actions and I’m glad they are joyful at church. I try to give them a quiet feeling of reverence without taking away the joy.

Often when I arrive at a ward party, I will hear a little voice shout out my name, and see a small child hurtling toward me, flinging herself into my arms for a hug. They do this so exuberantly because they have chosen joy, and that joy allows them to love unconditionally. I came to class last week cranky and unprepared? Doesn’t matter. Their overwhelming joy lets them love me anyway. I can scold a child in class for smearing glue on his neighbor, and moments later be handed a colorful drawing from that same child with a collection of letters I am assured say, “I love you.” Joy lets you forgive so easily. Having people in your life who choose joy reassures you of your own worth.

I’ve always believed that no one loves better than a four year old. I’ve watched Primary children love and serve a disabled classmate who might be shunned by older children. I watched as a little boy in class glanced to the back of the room to see his beloved music leader standing. He jumped out of his seat, found an empty chair, and took it to her. I’ve mentioned to my little ones that a friend they’ve never met was sick, and had them beg to make her cards. I’ve seen them worry about an inactive child and plot her reactivation. I sat back and let my four year olds do the teaching when a classmate was upset because he couldn’t learn to ride his new bicycle. They assured him they knew he’d learn someday and it was hard. Then every week, they asked him how he was doing with that bike—they never forgot, and when he finally mastered it, they cheered.

Four year olds choose joy, and it makes them treat others and themselves differently. They aren’t afraid to say, “Look, teacher. I made a beautiful picture.” If they admit they are sometimes less than nice to a sibling, they don’t hate themselves. They just presume that someday they will be able to fix this little problem. When you tell them Jesus loves them, they already know that, and know it better than we do, because they trust themselves to be lovable, and their Savior to be accepting of them regardless of their level of perfection.

If you really want to know how to choose joy, hang out in Primary or with your own little ones. The children know how to choose joy and they know why you—no matter how you might feel about yourself—deserve it.

Choose joy.