Again We Turn to Happiness…
January 1, 1970
“There is even a happiness,” wrote Thomas Hood, “that makes the heart afraid.”
There is a happiness that makes the heart afraid –afraid that it won’t last long. Life is changeable. It changes sometimes suddenly and swiftly. And men are made and unmade in many ways, by unforeseen events, and by the moving, measured toll of time. And precious things often pass, or are lost, or left behind.
But there are cherished scenes that we would hold to – if we could. There are times in each man’s life which he would keep, or have repeated or prolonged: times of childhood when eyes are wide and the world is wonderful- and when all things are possible because of simple faith; times in the years of youth, the years of promise which we wish would linger longer; times when we have our children around us, young and safe and well, when we wish they would stay as they are, when home and family are foremost – times when small arms tightly hold us, when small hands are confidently held; times when a boy will open his heart, and let us see inside. We should like to hold to some of those times, but so quickly they pass, so quickly the young grow up and away.
There are times in the quiet companionship of loved ones that we would hold to a little longer – of much, much longer—of even forever – good days, good years, good memories.
But time moves, and we move with it, and the scenes and settings change, and people come and go. And almost imperceptibly – but sometimes quite suddenly – we realize that those who were old when we were young – have left, and have gone where we shall go.
And then, more than ever, we want to hold to some of the hours, to some of the things that mean the most. And then more than ever we know that there is a happiness that even makes the heart afraid – a happiness which is as if it were a fleeting glimpse of heaven. And then we are most grateful for the faith—for the assurance—that the bright and hallowed moments that we would hold to here are just a little opening insight into what we may look for hereafter – if we will.
Thomas Hood, To Melancholy