Joy That Stays

Something has always struck me about the way Jesus spoke on the night before His death.

If you’ve ever sat beside someone who knew time was short, you know how those conversations feel. No one wastes words on the weather. You don’t circle trivial things. There’s a weight to the moment—a careful choosing of what must be said. Last words tend to be the ones we hope will hold when we no longer can.

That’s what makes John 13 through 17 feel so tender to me.

Jesus knew what was coming. The cross. The scattering. The grief His friends were about to carry. And yet, woven through His final conversation with them is a surprising theme: joy. Not once. Repeatedly. Almost insistently.

In John 15, He talks about remaining—staying connected, staying close, like branches that don’t try to survive on their own. And then He says something quietly astonishing: “These things I have spoken to you, that My joy may remain in you, and that your joy may be full” (John 15:11, NKJV).

Not borrowed joy. Not temporary relief. His joy—shared, steady, and meant to stay.

What He doesn’t do is pretend the pain won’t come.

A little later, He tells them plainly that sorrow is ahead. There will be loss. Confusion. A stretch of time where nothing makes sense. And He doesn’t rush them past it or correct their emotions. He simply assures them it won’t be the end of the story. That sorrow, somehow, will give way to joy—not because it was small, but because it was carried.

There’s something comforting about that honesty.

Jesus never asked His followers to deny their grief. He never suggested that faith means staying cheerful at all costs. Instead, He spoke of joy as something deeper than mood—something rooted in relationship. Something no one could take away.

Later that same night, He talked about prayer. About access. About asking in His name—not as a formula, but as an invitation into closeness. “Ask, and you will receive, that your joy may be full” (John 16:24, NKJV). Again, joy shows up—not as a reward for getting everything right, but as the fruit of staying connected.

By the time He prays in John 17, it’s clear this joy matters deeply to Him. He asks that it would live in them. That it would be fulfilled—not someday far off, but in the middle of real life.

I find that meaningful.

We often think of joy as something fragile—easily disrupted by stress, loss, or uncertainty. But Jesus spoke of it as a strength. Something resilient. Something relational. A kind of inner steadiness that grows when we know we are not alone.

And that makes sense.

Joy, in this light, isn’t about circumstances lining up. It’s about knowing you are seen, known, and held. About trusting that even when things unravel, God has not stepped away. Scripture puts it simply: “The joy of the LORD is your strength” (Nehemiah 8:10).

Jesus understood how heavy this world can be. He didn’t minimize pain, and He doesn’t minimize ours. But neither did He leave His friends unprepared. He offered them something enduring—a joy that grows out of love, presence, and shared life with Him.

And maybe that’s the invitation for us, too.

Not to chase joy as a feeling, but to tend the relationship that produces it. To remain. To rest. To let ourselves be loved—especially on the days when joy feels distant.

Because when we delight in Him, we begin to discover something quietly beautiful:

He delights in us, too.

If this Fireside Chat warmed your spirit and sparked fresh resolve to live what you believe, fan that flame with Scripture—“Let the word of Christ dwell in you richly” (Colossians 3:16). Pull a little closer to the Light, and carry it into the week ahead.

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