How God answered my prayer in the most unexpected way
For weeks, I’d been wrestling with joy—or rather, with my inability to find it. The Spirit had been nudging me, sometimes gently, sometimes insistently, toward something I couldn’t quite grasp. Embrace joy, I sensed Him saying. But how do you embrace what feels so elusive?
I set out for a long walk alone, carrying this question.
Usually I walk with my wife, and when I walk with her I might as well be running. Think Olympic race walking where we’re talking, but I’m sweating, my heart rate’s spiking, and I’m considering faking a pulled hammy. But this time I needed the quiet, needed space to think and pray without keeping pace with anyone but myself.
The truth is, I’d been stuck in what felt like an endless loop of self-examination and confession. Like Paul in Romans, I knew exactly what he meant when he wrote, “I do not do the good I want, but the evil I do not want is what I keep on doing.” (Romans 7:19) That internal war between wanting righteousness and falling into the same patterns was exhausting me. My prayer life had become consumed with lamenting my failures—my worry, my doubts, my willful disobedience.
But as I approached the beginning of our usual walking trail, the questions felt more urgent: How do you find joy in ordinary moments? In disappointments? In the kind of suffering—emotional and physical—that just comes with being human?
The Trail
My route took me down an idyllic, tree-lined street before turning onto a forest trail. The entrance is marked by a blacktopped spiral descending to the trail below. At the bottom, a paved walkway snakes for two miles through trees, past creeks, over wooden bridges—the perfect suburban escape.
As I reached the bottom of that spiral, I did something I don’t often do. I asked the Spirit directly: Show me how to find and celebrate joy… in all things.
And He did.
In a way He knew I would understand and fully appreciate.
Childhood Wonder
To understand what happened next, I need to take you back to my childhood. Back to Oakland, NJ. As a kid, I used to sneak out of the bathroom window of our small ranch-style home and climb up onto the roof. For hours I’d lie on my back, gazing up at the night sky—summer, winter, it didn’t matter.
That vast black canvas dotted with hundreds of twinkling lights had a way of putting everything in perspective. The peace, the wonder… it eased any problem, any worry. Orion and his belt. The Big Dipper. The moon, no larger than my thumbnail. I dreamed of visiting them and learning their secrets. Returning to the real world, I’d check out every astronomy book from the library, mesmerized by the photographs. In 1992, I joined the Planetary Society. I’m still a member today.
Carl Sagan was my hero. I had all his books. Pale Blue Dot, Contact, Cosmos. I owned all of his VHS tapes. My dad and I watched “Cosmos,” his award-winning television series more times than I can count. I even convinced myself that Carl and I were kindred spirits because we shared a birthday. In college, I wanted to major in astronomy, took several classes, only to discover it was intensely mathematical when all I really wanted was to gaze up at the night sky and ponder the mysteries above.
The Answer
So there I was, stepping onto that familiar trail, having just asked the Spirit to help me find and celebrate joy. I looked down and saw something that made me laugh out loud. Not haha funny, but that laugh of recognition when something unexpected hits you just right: a chalk drawing of a gray circular disk with the word “Mercury” printed in careful block letters beside it.
Several feet further down the trail: Venus. Then Earth.
Someone—a child, I assumed—had recreated our entire solar system, drawn to scale in feet rather than miles.
As I continued my walk, Jupiter appeared, then Saturn, Uranus, and Neptune. Each separated by the kind of careful spacing that mimicked the vast distances of space, compressed now into a neighborhood walking path.
All I could think about was my childhood wonder on that rooftop, and the wonder of this child who, likely with a parent’s help, had created this beautiful piece of sidewalk art. And here I was, getting to stumble upon it, getting to experience that same sense of awe I’d felt as a boy.
That was joy.
The Gift of Wonder
Sometimes God answers our prayers in the most unexpected ways. I’d been asking how to find joy in all things, and He reminded me that joy often comes disguised as wonder. It’s found in the intersection of a child’s imagination and an adult’s willingness to see magic in chalk drawings on pavement.
Joy isn’t always loud or obvious. Sometimes it’s as quiet as recognition—recognizing that the same God who hung the stars also delights in a child’s creativity, and orchestrates divine appointments between His searching children and the very answers they need.
The solar system will wash away with the next rain. But the reminder it gave me will last: joy is all around us, waiting to be discovered by those who have eyes to see and hearts open to wonder. Maybe today, that’s you. Maybe joy is closer than you think. Maybe it’s drawn in chalk, hidden in plain sight.
What unexpected ways has God shown you joy lately? I’d love to hear your stories in the comments below.
