Micro Joys (A Valentine Reflection)

One of my favorite stories about my parents is wonderfully simple.

One night my dad went to bed early and, as a joke, turned himself around so his feet were on the pillow and his head was at the foot of the bed. When my mom came in, she followed her nightly ritual — leaning over to give him a gentle kiss goodnight.

Only this time, she kissed his feet.

The funny thing came next.

She didn’t even notice.

She just rolled back over, pulled up the covers, and started drifting off to sleep, completely unaware that she had just given a very sincere expression of affection to the wrong end of the man she loved.

A few seconds later, Dad couldn’t hold it in anymore and burst into laughter — the kind that shakes the whole mattress. When Mom realized what had happened, she started laughing too, probably while also reminding him that practical jokes can shorten a husband’s life expectancy.

It was a small moment.

Nothing dramatic.

Just pure, unbounded joy.

I’ve been thinking about that story this week because of a line I heard recently. Someone reflecting on Bad Bunny’s halftime show said that her people had endured a very difficult year, and seeing Benito — one of her own — standing on one of life’s grandest stages made her weep with joy. Then she said:

“It’s those micro joys that help us survive all the macro sadness we are carrying.”

That feels especially true right now. The headlines around us can feel unbearably heavy — conflict, uncertainty, and the steady stream of hard stories that meet us every morning before the coffee even finishes brewing. Many of us also carry quiet personal worries that never make the news but still shape our days. And yet, somehow, the things that keep us going are often surprisingly small — laughter at the dinner table, a warm cup of coffee shared with someone we love, a text that says, “Thinking about you,” a moment of unexpected silliness before the lights go out.

Valentine’s Day tends to celebrate the big gestures — flowers, dinners, grand romantic plans. Those things are lovely. But most love is not actually built out of grand gestures. It is built out of the tiny, repeated moments: the kiss goodnight, the inside joke, the shared laugh that sneaks up on you when life has felt a little stuck, the quiet habit of turning toward each other even on ordinary nights.

When my sister died in an accident, it was memories like this — these small moments of laughter and tenderness — that helped my parents find their way through the grief. Micro joys do not erase sorrow, but they quietly help carry us through it.

Sometimes love looks less like roses and more like giggling in the dark because someone accidentally kissed the wrong end of the bed.

So this Valentine’s Day, maybe the invitation is simple: notice the micro joys.

Create a few if you can.

Hold them a little longer than usual.

Because the world may bring sorrow at times, but the deep gift of love — the joy that grows in small daily moments — is something the world can never quite take away.

Your friend and pastor,

thankful for two parents who taught me the micro joy of laughter,

Brook