There's no other way one can best describe a word such as joy. It's not as blunt, curt and to-the-point like a period. Or somewhat diffident and cautious but with an impulsive sprint in its foot like a comma.
Joy cannot be whispered in hush tones or stated matter of factly. That would be too polite and would seem a little bit like a stuck up courtier behaving with decorum. It has to be shouted and screamed with the kind of delirium that some might mistake for insanity.
Joy does that. Or at least, it's supposed to do so.
Being joyous must involve being lost for words. If one can explain it in a perfectly formed and grammatically sound sentence, then, perhaps one hasn't got it as yet. It's not a rule as such but as indicators go, it'd be a sign.
There are moments in our life when joy can be the only valid response. Anything else can hardly match the leaps our heart would be taking when we're struck by joy.
Christmas is meant to be a season of joy. It's in the carols we sing. It's in the family get-togethers where memories are made. It's in the warm hugs and kisses we share with those we love and care.
And it's also in the news of the Christ child born in an insignificant Palestinian town of Bethlehem - a birth that would herald freedom to those shackled by sin's clutches, peace to those tormented by the inner demons of anxiety, and a group of social nobodies out in the hillside tending to their sheep given the privilege of being the first to hear this news.
But the angel said to them, “Do not be afraid. I bring you good news that will cause great joy for all the people. Today in the town of David a Saviour has been born to you; he is the Messiah, the Lord.