make evident my joy

It had been awhile. I knew that much.

I went out one Friday night a few weeks ago, after the LIFE service held by the campus' Christian fellowship group. I was really only intending to do just that -- go out -- but it ended up doing a lot more for me than the feeling of freedom that comes from walking out the door without your exclusively-breastfeeding-three-month-old.

As we sat in the chilly fall night air, everyone sitting a bit closer than they might normally around a dancing fire, I laughed. Most of the things I laughed at, I couldn't even recount the next day -- they were, for the most part, silly little things that would normally only warrant a small titter. But I laughed.

I laughed hard and I laughed long. I laughed so well that one friend turned to another and, while I don't think she realized I could hear her, commented that she had never, in the previous three years she's been here + known me, heard me laugh like like that. I took it as it was meant -- a lighthearted comment -- and continued to giggle with the best of friends.

It wasn't until much later, well into the early morning as I finally crawled into bed, that the weight of the words spoken really hit my heart.

Someone who had known me for years and had spent plenty of time with me in groups where I feel more than comfortable to be myself had never heard me laugh so fully. Me, the girl who was once known for her tendency to laugh at everything, to always have a smile on my face.

I spent a little while crying, big fat tears of disappointment. Disappointment in myself for letting it get to the point where happiness wasn't my default, where my joy wasn't evident.

And then I stopped crying.

It had been awhile. I knew that much.

What I didn't know was how truly necessary it was. How much healing and restoration would come from it.