Some people inherit jewelry or furniture from their grandparents.
What I inherited instead were stories told in my grandmother’s living room, while Southern gospel played softly and a cuckoo clock interrupted us every fifteen minutes.
It was there that I first learned how memory keeps love alive long after the people we love are gone.

When I think about my grandmothers, I often say that I was blessed with two extraordinary women.

One was my soulmate.

The other was my playmate.

The one who was my playmate might surprise people if they had only known her casually. She was not naturally bubbly or outwardly joyful. In many ways she carried a quiet seriousness about her, a thoughtful melancholy that seemed to follow her through life.

Life had given her reasons for that.

She lost my grandfather when she was still in her thirties. My father was only ten years old when it happened. She never remarried, and although she carried on with strength and dignity, I think part of her heart always remained with him.

But every once in a while, something beautiful would happen.

She would relax.

She would laugh.

She would play.

And when she did, she came completely alive.

One of my favorite memories of her is at a playground. There was a giant shoe there that children could climb inside. Most adults would stand nearby and watch the children play.

Someone took a picture of her standing there with a playful grin on her face, and when I look at that picture now I realize something. In that moment she wasn’t thinking about life’s losses or responsibilities.

She was simply playing.

Those were the moments I loved most.

Most of our visits with her, though, happened in a much quieter place.

Her living room.

If I walked into that room today, I could still feel it. Many afternoons we would sit together there drinking tea while the conversation slowly unfolded. Sometimes it was just everyday family talk. Other times she would bring out her photo albums.

That was when things became magical.

She would open the albums page by page, telling the stories behind the pictures. We would laugh about relatives, remember old family moments, and ask questions about people we had never met.

That was how I came to know my grandfather.

I never met him. He had died when my father was just a boy. But I was hungry to know who he was, so I asked my grandmother questions about their life together.

She loved those questions.

She told me about the farmhouse in Nebraska they had been preparing to renovate when he died. When she spoke about those years, something in her face softened.

I didn’t understand it when I was young.

But I see it now.

Those were the years when she had been happiest.

Remembering them seemed to bring her back there for a little while.

There was almost always music playing in that living room too.

My grandmother loved music. She didn’t play instruments like my other grandmother did, although every once in a while she would pick up a harmonica and play a little tune. Mostly she loved to listen.

Her stereo was one of the most important pieces of furniture in the room.

Whenever we came to visit, she often had music playing softly in the background. It was always Southern gospel or old hymns. Sometimes it might be a recording of classic hymns, sometimes newer versions sung by artists who loved those old songs.

The music seemed to belong to the room just as much as the furniture did.

And then there was the cuckoo clock.

It hung on the wall and had a habit of interrupting whatever we were doing.

Every fifteen minutes it would announce itself.

Cuckoo.

Cuckoo.

Sometimes it was charming. Sometimes it was a little annoying, especially when it chimed right in the middle of a story. And if someone was spending the night at her house, she would stop the clock so it wouldn’t wake us during the night.

But the truth is, that clock became part of the rhythm of being there.

Time moved forward.

Stories moved backward.

And somehow both things happened in that living room at the same time.

My grandmother cared deeply about preserving family history. She had saved old documents from earlier generations, including citizenship papers from ancestors who had come to America. She even made copies for the grandchildren so that each of us would have them.

Looking back now, I realize she was doing something very intentional.

She was making sure the stories would continue after she was gone.

Years later, when I was living in Turkey, my family let me know that she was not doing well. She had endured so much loss in her life. She had outlived my father, which I know had been incredibly hard for her.

And yet she remained strong.

She simply kept going.

When the news came that she had passed away, my family asked each of us to share a favorite memory of her for the funeral.

Since I couldn’t travel back from Turkey, I sent my story to my cousin and asked him to read it for me.

It was the story that captured my grandmother perfectly.

Everyone in our family knew that it was not wise to leave Christmas presents at her house too early.

She was curious.

Very curious.

One Thanksgiving, my aunt and uncle decided to take the risk anyway. They lived several hours away and thought they would save themselves a trip later by bringing her Christmas gift early.

It was a large box.

Beautifully wrapped.

After everyone had gone home that evening, my grandmother sat in her recliner looking at that package.

Then she noticed something dangerous.

A tiny tear in the wrapping paper.

She later told us exactly what she thought.

Well, there’s already a tear there. If I just move it a little bit, maybe I can see what’s inside.

Of course curiosity rarely stops with just a peek.

The tear grew.

And grew.

Until eventually the entire package was open.

Inside was something she absolutely loved. It was one of those blanket sleepers where you could slip your feet inside and zip it all the way up to your neck. Her little house had only a floor furnace, and parts of it could get quite chilly.

So she tried it on.

She sat in her recliner, zipped up nice and cozy, perfectly content.

And that was exactly when the phone rang.

Now this was before cell phones. The phone was on the wall.

Which meant she had to get up to answer it.

But there was a problem.

She tried to unzip it.

The zipper stuck.

The phone kept ringing.

She wrestled with the zipper, finally managed to answer the phone, and by the time she did she was completely out of breath.

Her daughter immediately asked what was wrong.

And that was when my grandmother had to confess that she had opened her own Christmas present early, tried it on, and gotten stuck inside it before the holiday had even arrived.

The entire family laughed about that story for years.

And that is the story my cousin read at her funeral.

Because in that one moment you could see everything about her.

Her curiosity.

Her playfulness.

Her honesty.

Now when I think about my grandmother, I don’t feel heavy grief.

I feel something gentler.

A quiet fondness.

Sometimes I imagine walking back into that living room again. Sitting down for another afternoon visit. Having a cup of tea while she pulls out the photo albums and begins telling the stories one more time.

Soft gospel music playing in the background.

And somewhere on the wall, that cuckoo clock interrupts the conversation.

Cuckoo.

Cuckoo.

A small reminder that time keeps moving forward.

But that living room was one of the first places I learned something important.

Stories keep people alive.

If this story resonated with you, I’d love for you to join me here.

Deronda Aiken

Helping you find joy in unexpected places…
because joy doesn’t disappear, it just waits to be notice

How learning tenor on Amazing Grace shaped the way I listen to people’s stories

One of my favorite memories from childhood begins in a very ordinary place.

My mother sat me down and taught me how to sing harmony.

I was probably seven or eight years old at the time. I don’t remember exactly which year it was, but I remember the moment itself very clearly. It wasn’t accidental or casual. She did it deliberately, almost like she was passing something important along to me.

And the first part she taught me was tenor.

Now, if you know anything about choir music, you might already see the irony there. Tenor is not typically the vocal part a young girl learns first. In most choirs, tenor is sung by men. Women are usually placed in soprano or alto.

But my mother started me on tenor.

And the song she used to teach me was Amazing Grace.

I had forgotten that detail for years until it surfaced in my mind recently, like a small treasure tucked away in memory.

Amazing Grace.

When you think about it, that feels almost symbolic.

She didn’t sit down with a complicated piece of music or some technical exercise. She chose a song that carries centuries of meaning and emotion, a melody almost everyone recognizes the moment it begins.

But she didn’t teach me the melody.

She taught me the harmony.

While the melody floated above, she guided my voice into that inner line—the tenor part that lives inside the chord, not on top of it.

At the time, I didn’t think much about what she was doing. I was just a child learning to sing. But over the years, I discovered something about myself.

I loved harmony.

Alto became comfortable for me later, and I enjoy singing it because it’s rich and deep. But tenor still brings me the most joy when it fits my voice in a particular song.

There’s something about tenor that feels satisfying in a way that’s hard to explain.

Tenor sits in the middle of the music.

Not the melody that everyone hears first.

Not the bass that anchors the bottom.

Tenor lives in the center, connecting the parts and filling out the sound of the chord.

When I was younger, I sometimes wished I had the kind of voice that could carry the lead.

My mother had that kind of voice. So did my grandmother. Both of them had strong, beautiful lead voices. In fact, if either of them had chosen to pursue a career in music, they very easily could have done so.

But they didn’t.

If there had ever been a musical career for me, it would have been with them — singing together — not standing alone on a stage by myself.

As a young person, there was a little disappointment in that realization. The idea of singing professionally was appealing, but I instinctively understood that the way I fit into music was through singing alongside others, not apart from them.

Looking back now, I realize something surprising.

That lesson about harmony didn’t just shape the way I sing.

It shaped the way I move through life.

Harmony singers don’t dominate a song. They listen carefully to what’s already there. They hear the melody, understand where the music is going, and then add their voice in a way that strengthens the whole.

When harmony enters a song, something remarkable happens.

The melody suddenly becomes richer.

Deeper.

More emotional.

And I’ve begun to realize that the same thing happens in conversations.

When people talk with me, they often say something curious.

“I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”

Or they stop mid-story and laugh and say, “I don’t know how we got onto this subject.”

But what’s really happening is something very similar to what happens in music.

Someone begins sharing the melody of their story.

And when I listen carefully and reflect back what I hear — when I ask a thoughtful question or add an observation that helps them see their experience in a new way — the story deepens.

It becomes fuller.

More meaningful.

Almost like harmony entering the music.

That’s when people often discover something unexpected.

They realize where they found joy.

Sometimes in places they never noticed before.

Sometimes in moments that were hidden inside difficult experiences.

Sometimes in stories they had never quite finished telling.

The truth is, I don’t believe I was designed to sing the melody alone.

God created me to sing harmony.

With my voice.

And in life.

Harmony doesn’t compete with the melody. It supports it. It gives it depth. It makes the music resonate more fully.

Looking back, I think my mother understood something when she sat me down and taught me tenor on Amazing Grace.

She may not have realized it at the time.

But that small lesson quietly set the course for the way I hear people, the way I listen to stories, and the way I hope to live my life.

Because sometimes the most powerful role in a song is not the one everyone hears first.

Sometimes it’s the voice that helps the music become whole.

If this story resonated with you, I’d love for you to join me here.

Deronda Aiken

Helping you find joy in unexpected places…
because joy doesn’t disappear, it just waits to be noticed

Over the past year I’ve spent a good deal of time reflecting. Watching my own reactions to things. Watching the world. Noticing what I give my attention to, and what that attention does to my spirit.

Little by little, something has been becoming clearer.

For a long time I described myself as the Joy Ambassador. And in many ways that still feels true. An ambassador represents something that already exists. An ambassador points toward something good and says, Look at this. Notice this. This matters.

And I do believe that joy is always present in our lives, even when things feel uncertain or heavy. Sometimes it’s obvious. Other times it’s quieter, waiting patiently for us to notice it.

But lately I’ve realized something else.

Joy doesn’t just appear fully formed in our lives. More often than not, it has to be built — deliberately, thoughtfully, sometimes even protectively.

That realization has been quietly reshaping the way I think about my role in the world.

Because an ambassador and an architect do very different kinds of work.

An ambassador represents what already exists. But an architect designs the structure people live inside. An architect chooses the materials, lays the foundation, and thinks carefully about how everything will hold together.

And the more I’ve reflected on it, the more I realize that joy works much the same way.

Sometimes we discover it.

But often we have to build it.

Right now the world feels loud and unsettled in many ways. There is no shortage of opinions, arguments, or reasons to feel discouraged about the direction things are going. It can be very easy to get pulled into that current, spending our energy reacting to things we cannot change or proving a point that doesn’t actually bring more peace into our lives.

I’ve felt that pull myself.

And I’ve noticed what happens when I stay there too long. My attention narrows. My patience thins. The natural sense of lightness that usually bubbles up in me begins to fade.

Joy doesn’t disappear all at once.

It just quietly loses ground.

That realization has been important for me, because it reminds me that joy is not something that survives on autopilot. It grows in the environments we intentionally create around ourselves.

The things we choose to focus on.

The conversations we participate in.

The energy we bring into a room.

The small moments we allow ourselves to notice.

A conversation that turns unexpectedly warm.

A moment of laughter during an ordinary workday.

A walk down a familiar street where the light suddenly catches something in a beautiful way.

Joy rarely arrives with fireworks. More often it shows up quietly, woven into the texture of everyday life. But it becomes much easier to see when we begin intentionally creating space for it.

That is the shift that has been happening inside me.

For a long time I thought my role was simply to point toward joy — to notice it, talk about it, and encourage others to see it too.

But lately I’ve realized something deeper.

I want to be a Joy Architect, not just someone who talks about joy, but someone who actively builds it.

First in my own life.

In the way I choose where to place my attention. In the way I shape my days. In the kind of atmosphere I help create around me.

Because the strongest foundations always start there.

And when joy is intentionally built into the structure of our lives, something interesting happens. It begins to spread outward naturally. People feel it. They respond to it. They carry a little of it with them into the rest of their day.

Not because someone lectured them about joy.

But because they experienced it.

So this realization is less of a grand declaration and more of a quiet commitment.

A reminder to myself that joy is not only something worth celebrating.

It is something worth designing into the structure of a life.

This space will be where I continue exploring these ideas. Stories about discovering joy in unexpected places. Reflections about building lives where joy has room to grow. Conversations with people whose journeys remind us that joy often appears where we least expect it.

If those ideas resonate with you, I hope you’ll join me here.

In joy,
Deronda Aiken
The Joy Ambassador and an architect of joy

Remember, joy is often waiting in the places we least expect it.
Keep discovering joy in unexpected places.

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