Joy Has No Expiration Date

This is a story about a sandwich —
but more than that, it’s about unexpected joy,
the kind that sneaks up on you
when you’re just standing at the kitchen sink.

I found it in the back of the pantry.
A jar of marshmallow fluff.
I had white bread.
Creamy peanut butter.
And now… the fluff.

So I made one.
A fluffernutter.

Two slices of soft, squishy bread.
One spread with peanut butter.
One with the fluff.
I pressed them together —
and took a bite.

Oh. My. God.

It all came rushing back.
The joy.
The comfort.
Happiness — between two slices of bread.

I stood there in the kitchen, smiling, eyes closed.
Completely satisfied.

Afterward, I rinsed off the jar.
The stickiness had dripped down the sides.
And that’s when I saw it.

The expiration date.
March.
2020.

I stared at it.
I had just eaten a sandwich made with fluff
that expired in the first month of the pandemic.

I blinked.
I waited.

Nothing happened.

And then — I laughed.

Because it was still perfect.
Because I had loved every bite.
And because…
joy has no expiration date.

A Note from the Kitchen Sink

You don’t need my fluff.
Maybe yours is the cookie in the back of the freezer,
or the tea you forgot you had,
or the song that plays at just the right moment.

Joy isn’t new.
It’s remembered.

Find it.
Taste it.
Laugh.

You’re not late.
You’re here.

This story lives in Compass Point 4 — What Has Meaning Now?