The afternoon sun is coming in our front window, falling on the pages as I sit down at the piano my parents scrounged to buy when I was thirteen. The top is dusty, the keys badly out of tune. There are concerto pieces in the piano bench beneath me, but I focus on an intermediate book, and I play slowly.

Our kids once began half-hearted lessons, but I am the only one in the family who knows how to play this instrument, and my fingers have lost the agility they had when they played those concertos. Despite the missed notes and frustration, joy pokes its head between the notes. I am making music again, and muscle memory takes over with note patterns I haven’t played since I was sixteen.

I will never compete at this again, never perform for an audience, never put mad piano skills on a resume. And that is the point.

I am doing it because God made me for it, and the deep joy of the Creator calls out my joy when I follow.

I am an unflagging worker. I spend all day at the computer, when I’m not running to change laundry loads or magically pull something out of the freezer at the last minute for dinner. I love what I do, bringing words to life on a page or in a sermon. But given the chance, I will stay there, stuck in work like our Christmas lights that are still frozen into the ground in March. With no one else home, I can look up, find it’s eight o’clock, and realize I can’t take one more minute of banging out words. I need a joy break.

Part of this is because I love what I do. But to be honest? Part of it is because I like to check things off a list. I am addicted to the sense of accomplishment. And I like the accolades that come with doing it well.

It seems oxymoronic, but I have to force myself to play, and slowly, playing brings joy.

In a culture that requires every activity we do to have a purpose, each minute we spend to add to our resume of achievements, we can lose our joy in the race. This high pressure life tries to convince us we have no time for play when we have to spend all of our time validating our existence with achievements.

We’re still surprised that we lose our joy so easily? Some days, I don’t lose it, I drown it in an ocean of must-do’s. Yet, the God who tells us that trees clap their hands, rocks sing praise, and the heavens rejoice is calling us with those creative images to do the same.

“Clap your hands, all you nations; shout to God with cries of joy.” {Psalm 47:1, NIV}

Joy comes from what God has planted inside me, never from the circumstances I find or create. I can rediscover it when I stop looking for it in a list of accolades and start reveling in what He’s already put in my heart. I find it when I play.

Let’s play pointlessly, joyously, with abandon — without worrying that you have no time and you have other more important things to do.

There are no things more important than joy.

That’s why I’ve taken up the piano again. I’m also revisiting other things I loved before too much life crowded in: sewing (there’s a wedding dress for a daughter only halfway done), scrapbooking, growing flowers, watching birds.

There is some part of you made to match some part of Him that will sing with joy when those parts come together. For me it’s creating beauty, whether it’s music or flowers. For you, it might be creating sustenance with amazing food or indulging in curiosity by taking apart small engines. It could be appreciating creation by hiking in the woods or shooting photos of His people.

It doesn’t even matter if you play well. The notes will still be sweet.

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