Seeking Joy In The Midst of Grief

Judith Valente
5 min readAug 20, 2023
Against a golden backdrop, one woman raises her hands in joy, while another, behind her, holds her face in her hands as if in sorrow.
Our lives are a mixture or joy and sorrow. How do we seek out joy in the midst of grief? (Photo courtesy of istock).

We live much of our lives crossing the intersection of joy and sorrow.

This became even more apparent to me in recent days. On Monday, I received word that my first cousin Peter Valente had died after fighting heart disease and having one organ after another shut down.

On Thursday came the news that my friend Chuck Elias — a lay associate at Mount St. Scholastica Monastery in Kansas — had passed away suddenly. Chuck had been a hero of mine ever since the first time I saw him, overseeing the packaging of Thanksgiving Day dinners to be delivered to shut-ins in his hometown of Atchison.

There was also news this week that two elderly friends — one a Benedictine sister, the other a longtime Chicago friend who was like a second mother to me — are both in a dying state.

What to do with all this sorrow?

Coincidentally, my monthly Poetry and Spirituality workshop group, led by the wonderful Boston poet Lisa Breger and sponsored by St. Mary’s Monastery in Rock Island, IL, was meeting last week on Zoom. The theme of our poems for this month happened to be finding joy in a time of sorrow.

In her poem “Why Is It?” poet Linda Clewell, asked:

Why is it

Joy is as fleeting as

A Monarch butterfly scanning the sunflowers …


Grief lingers in the heart like

An unexpected guest

Unpacking old baggage

With the intent to stay a while …

Why indeed? It seems we let loose of joy all too easily, but hold fast to our griefs. And yet, we can we look at our sorrows in another light. We can look at them as “joy unmasked,” something the poet Kahil Gibran suggests in his poem, “On Joy and Sorrow:”

Some of you say, ‘Joy is greater than sorrow,’ and others say, ‘Nay, sorrow is the greater.’
But I say unto you, they are inseparable.
Together they come, and when one sits alone with you at your board, remember that the other is asleep upon your bed.

Both joy and grief impose themselves on us. They come, as Linda Clewell notes in her poem, like “unexpected guests.” We can’t ward off or wish away the sorrows that visit us. We can seek out joy — even small amounts of it — in the midst of our griefs.

In his blog, “The Weekly Pause,” poet James Crews writes:

“Perhaps our task here is to spend our lives tallying up all the ways we feel held by the physical world and all the things we love about it so that it becomes much more difficult to lose sight of our aliveness and the gift of one more day on earth.”

A child runs in a field of grass holding a group of different-colored baloons.
When we allow simple moments of joy to enter our lives, we gain access to wonder and awe, gratitude and mindfulness, poet James Crews writes.

Memories of happy moments with my cousin Peter and my friend Chuck as well as my two other friends inching closer to death, comforted me this week. So did the gratitude I felt for “the gift of one more day on earth.” So did finding fleeting encounters with joy amid the sadness.

Those moments of wonder arrived perhaps because I was looking for them. They came in the way the sun cast light spots on the bricks of my neighbor’s house so that the side of the house looked like an abstract painting. In watching a yellow hummingbird flit from flower to flower in a window box. In breathing in the sweet scent of grass after a morning rain.

“When we can allow the very simple things around us to offer themselves to our attention,” James Crews says, “we gain brief access to those qualities which can seem so fleeting, but are no less necessary: wonder and awe, gratitude and mindfulness.”

A small act such as paying attention to a hummingbird visiting a flower box can return our awareness to the joy of living. (Photo courtesy of Birds and Blooms).

On the morning my cousin passed away, I happend to be in Chicago’s Hyde Park neighborhood. I took a long walk and when I cam back in wrote a poem called “On This Morning of Sun and Clouds” that tried to capture small moments of joy.

The round white heads of hydrangea blooms

shout of joy, like the open faces of children.

Forget the sirens, the shouts in the street

and whir of traffic heading nowhere.

Let me tell you of the flamboyant cardinal

skipping through an ivy garden beside a tender sparrow

and the yellow hummingbird who hovers long

above a window box of marigolds and daisies

the way one might gaze at a still life by Cezanne.

From a far-off city, a friend calls barely able

to speak, says dying is so very hard, asks me

to remember that being alive is easy, even when

when a shower erupts on your morning walk,

drenches you with cool rain as you breathe in

the sweet scent of wet grass and a crack

of light breaks through a floating bay of clouds

and in no time at all you are once again warm.

Lately I have been thinking how the tiniest words

pour out their meaning, can form even in the mouths

of babies. Words like see, can, you, now, yes, joy.

Can we seek out joy this week, even if we are visited unexpectedly by sorrow?

How will we cherish our aliveness, “the gift of one more day on earth?”

For more information on the Poetry & Spirituality Poetry Workshop, please visit

A yellow wild flower pushes through a crack in a concete sidewalk.
Sometimes the smallest sights, like a wildflower breaking through a crack in a concrete sidewalk, can spark a moment of joy.



Judith Valente

Author of 4 spirituality books & 2 poetry collections. Award-winning reporter for Wall Street Journal, PBS-TV, Washington Post & 2 IL public radio stations.