All That and a Bag of Chips

"A cheerful heart is good medicine, but a crushed spirit dries up the bones."
— Proverbs 17:22 (NIV)

If we apply the chicken-and-the-egg theory to this proverb, what comes first, happiness and then a cheerful heart? Or does a cheerful heart cause happiness?

One thing is certain: no one wants a crushed spirit.

I'll take Happiness for 100 (and pray for the Daily Double).

Another name for the evening news? What is Spirit Crushers?

When does happiness fall upon us? Maybe when the bills were paid. Or when the kids were grown. Or when the house was clean. Or when the dog’s diarrhea disappears. Or when life finally settled down enough for me to enjoy it.

The trouble is that life never settles down.

One problem gets solved and another takes its place. One goal is reached and another appears on the horizon. Nothing against goals—short term or long term. But can acquiring a cheerful heart be a goal? Just thinking about applying the SMART method to that could crush my spirit.

What if happiness isn't something we're supposed to chase at all?

What if happiness is simply a reward for surviving well?

Think about it.

You receive a bonus at work. Suddenly you're happy.

Why?

Part of it is the money, of course. But underneath that is something deeper. The bonus represents security. The bills get paid. The emergency fund grows. The future looks a little less threatening.

Your son brings home an A from school.

You're happy.

Not because of a letter on a piece of paper, but because that grade suggests he'll be okay. He is learning. He is growing. He has opportunities ahead of him.

Someone cleans the house.

Sweet.

Daisy’s bowel movements solidify.

Now we're talking.

I don't know about you, but a clean kitchen can improve my outlook on life considerably. Stress goes down. Order returns. The world feels manageable again.

Maybe a cheerful heart starts with a message from the brain: "Good. Things are going to be okay."

My mother had a favorite recliner.

During the last decade of her life, I noticed something. Every time she approached that chair, she would smile. Then she would lower herself into it and release a long, contented sigh.

It happened so often that I came to expect it.

The smile.

The plop.

The sigh.

Did that chair lower her blood pressure?

Maybe.

Did it reduce stress?

Probably.

Did it make her happy?

Absolutely.

The chair represented comfort, rest, safety, and relief. For a few moments, the work was done and she could simply be.

I understand her better now than I did then.

I have a comfortable chair of my own.

Not a recliner, but close enough.

Maybe you’ve noticed the excitement in our country lately about eating right and being fit. Well lately that message has been competing with my chair for my attention.

For months now I’ve heard:

Move more.

Walk more.

Strengthen your muscles.

Improve your health.

More than the food pyramid has been turned upside down!

Houston, we have a problem: I’ll take my comfortable chair for 200.

Years ago, before two hip replacements, I could run three easy miles. Now, facing that walking path felt a little like being handed a bowl of worms on Survivor and being told, 'Dig in.'

The first few outings were miserable.

I remember thinking, I should stop. I don't want to get overheated. I should have bought a Life Alert.

A few minutes later:

I should stop. I wouldn't want my feet to ache or get that stitch-in-the-side pain.

Then I spotted an elderly couple up ahead.

They had hunched backs, gray hair tucked beneath safari-style hats, and walking sticks. They were hard-core walkers. Their dog knew it too. Any necessary urinating would have to be accomplished mid-stride. There was no sniffing bushes or investigating squirrels. That dog had a job to do, and the job was walking.

I figured if I could just get a little closer to them, maybe I could draft.

I picked up my pace.

They picked up theirs.

My lungs weren't getting enough air.

Maybe I should stop. I might be having a heart attack.

Fred and Ethel up ahead had at least twenty years on me.

I kept going.

One step after another.

More than once I found myself wondering what it would feel like to be lying on a gurney being hoisted into a CareFlight helicopter. The air would be cool, and I would be horizontal.

There are moments when exercise inspires noble thoughts.

This was not one of them.

And all the while that chair sat patiently waiting for my return.

Eventually I made it back to my car, air conditioning blasting.

An inspirational image of Oprah and me pulling our wagons full of fat down the street together made me laugh out loud.

I sat there for a moment, sweaty, exhausted, and strangely pleased with myself.

I did it.

The biggest surprise, however, was that I wasn't hungry for hours afterward.

Yes, my muscles complained, my joints rebelled, and the Texas heat beat me up pretty good.

But then something strange happened.

After walking that brisk mile several times a week, I started feeling better.

A contented feeling.

The kind of feeling that puts you in a good mood for no obvious reason.

Who knew?

Apparently my thirty-year-old self knew.

My current self had forgotten.

Of course, not all happiness comes wrapped in virtue.

Ruffled potato chips make me happy.

I like the crunch.

I like the salt.

I like everything about them.

My husband, on the other hand, finds joy in a bowl of ice cream that has been microwaved just long enough to become smooth and creamy.

Frankly, he should just admit he prefers milkshakes.

Maybe these bite-sized moments combine to become a whole and create a cheerful heart.

Perhaps it is our body's way of recognizing that something has strengthened us, comforted us, nourished us, connected us, or helped us endure.

Sometimes it's about surviving well.

It's about acknowledging blessings no matter the size—simple comforts, meaningful relationships, useful work, and the ordinary gifts that make life worth living.

Sit in the chair.

Take the walk.

Enjoy a bag of chips.

And thank God for all of it.

 

I’m Lauren—a writer, educator, and novelty quilter with over 30 years of experience in service and sales. I’ve taught high school English, worked as a journalist, and now run Artisan Shop USA, a marketplace supporting handmade artistry.