Do You Prefer Me When I’m Sad?

Do you prefer me when I’m sad?

Do you prefer the version of me that life has bruised?
The version that was easier to comfort than celebrate?
Easier to pity than applaud?

Do you prefer me when I am breaking?
When my life looks harder to carry?
When my tears are sad tears, not happy ones?

Do you prefer me when I am less radiant, less sure, less loved?
Less chosen?

Do you prefer me when my joy is interrupted?
When my voice is quieter, not because I have less to say, but because sorrow has pressed the life out of me for a while?

Because some people know how to gather around pain.
It gives them somewhere to stand.
Some people know exactly what to do with your sadness.
They can reach for it, hold it, pray over it, talk about it.
But your joy? Your joy exposes them.

Your joy asks something of people.
It asks whether they can celebrate what they do not yet have.
Whether they can honour what God is doing in your life when they are still waiting for Him to do it in theirs.
Whether they can watch you bloom without quietly resenting the sunlight.

Hardship reveals who can comfort you.
Happiness reveals who can truly love you.

And that is a harder revelation to sit with.
Because I have realised I crave a rarer kind of love.

I think of David and Jonathan.
Jonathan was the son of Saul.
By birth, the throne should have been his.
And yet God had chosen David.

Jonathan saw what God was doing in David’s life and, instead of growing cold, he drew closer.
Instead of competing, he covered him.
Instead of resenting the favour on David’s life, he honoured it.

What a holy thing that is.
To look at someone whose life, in this season, seems to have been dealt better cards than yours and still say, I want this for you.
I still want you to win.
I still want your joy to remain full.

That is the kind of love I crave.

A love that does not need me dimmed in order to feel bright.
A love that does not need me grieving in order to feel needed.
A love that can sit with me in sorrow and still stay when sorrow lifts.
A love that does not confuse my pain for closeness.
A love that knows how to rejoice without withdrawing.
A love that inconveniences itself is the kind of love I trust, because convenience has never been the deepest measure of care.

Is it fair to expect someone else to make themselves smaller just so you can feel comfortable?
Will you sleep better at night knowing they had to swallow their joy to preserve your proximity?
Should they sing of God’s goodness less, just so they do not cast a shadow over your insecurities?
Should they soften their smile, dim their light, downplay their answered prayers, just to make sure your discomfort is not stirred?
Should they carry the burden of making their joy more digestible for you?
Should they have to shrink what God is doing in their life just to keep you close?

Because if someone has to become less radiant, less honest, less grateful, less full, in order to remain lovable to you, that is not love.

I want the kind of heart Jonathan had; he is my inspo.
The kind of heart that can look at another person’s rising and not call it a threat.
The kind of heart that can recognise God’s hand on someone else and not retreat into bitterness.
The kind of heart that says, even if this is not my season, I will not poison yours.

So perhaps this is what I am learning.
Not everyone prefers you sad.
But some people only know how to stay close when you are.

And if I may ask, are you safe to grow around? Are you safe to succeed around? Or are you only safe to be sad around?