A Road Less Travelled

Yesterday people at church told me I looked very nice. I found this a little strange because I was wearing yellow. I mean yellow isn’t a color I would normally wear and it isn’t a color I think of as cool(whatever that means). I used to want to wear black all the time because that was what I thought was cool. I’ve changed. And now I wear yellow and people tell me it looks good.

I wrote about this change back in January. So instead of writing something new I will simply recycle. Waste not want not.

My family is very strange. I am the youngest of five children and none of us have ever been called ‘normal’. But, I would have to say the strangest of us all is my brother Seth. Part of what makes him so strange is that he is deliberately strange and he looks like it. For one thing, he usually wears all black. He has many reasons for this and actually wrote them up at one point. I do not wear black. I have three articles of clothing that are black and I wear them because they are comfortable and I do not wear them with each other. It is a rare day that I am not wearing some color.

I used to wear black. I used to wear black all the time. I owned some colorful clothing, but I avoided it like the plague. I thought that I was being rebellious and Goth. I thought I was being melancholic and depressed. Maybe I thought I was being artsy too. As I look back I think I wanted to be like the people I saw around me. They were depressed and Goth and punk and I wanted to be like them. I did not realize at the time that they were like that because they did not have much else. Rebellion and melancholy were a way of life. The glories of living a life of cheerful submission to God and those He had placed over them was a foreign concept. So they rebelled and they dressed like it. I never fit with them no matter how much I tried. I never realized that the reason I did not fit was because I had it so good. I had love and stability in a way they could not dream of. I was certainly being rebellious, but not against anyone I was planning to be. I was rebelling against the God who made me the way I am.

My family loved me enough confront me about this sin. I do not remember exactly who started talking to me about the black I wore. It started with someone and then someone else and soon at least half my family was badgering me. They kept at it tirelessly. I think back to that time and see what a stubborn idiot I was. I held on to my black long past the point when I even liked it anymore. But it was cool and I wanted to be cool. So I clung to my black. It would make me cool somehow.

But my resistance was crumbling. I made a burgundy skirt. And I wore it. I did not like it very much at the beginning, but I eventually got used to it. Then I made a purple skirt. Then came a dress. Soon I had a closet that did not look like deep space. I was wearing colors! I refused to think about this too much, though. I still thought black was cool, but maybe I was not supposed to be cool. Well, I would just wear what I wanted to wear without thinking about it too hard and maybe people would at least put up with my lack of cool.

Then my mom died. Suddenly she was just gone. I had never mourned for someone this close to me. I was a little lost about what to do or how to act. It came to the night before the funeral and my sister-in-law was getting clothing out for herself, my brother and their children. She was laying out black. I looked at the black and knew down to the bottom of my soul that I did not want to wear black. My mother’s favorite color was raspberry. She was the most colorful person I knew and I did not want to show up at her funeral wearing the one color she hated on me. I wore a white shawl and a light purple dress that was the last dress she ever made for me.

This was the first purple dress I had worn in a long time. I was really surprised when I liked it. I thought I would never wear purple. Purple is the color of life that has no reason to be except to be pretty. Purple is the color of flowers and butterflies. Purple is the color of kites and hula-hoops. Purple is the color of life and light. I did not like purple because I was not lively; I was dark and brooding. But I realized that I could be lively too. In fact, I realized that it suited me better than all the brooding I had done before. I could be vibrant and enthusiastic. I could be excited about little things and I could do it well. I could wear purple and look right in it.

When it was my turn to speak about my mother I read from C. S. Lewis’s Chronicles of Narnia. I read about the resurrection of King Caspian and how Aslan made him young again. As I started to read my voice broke. Tears threaten to overwhelm me. But I was not going to cry! I was reading about the resurrection and I was wearing purple and I was not going to cry! And I didn’t. My voice became strong and I read a picture of what was waiting for my mother when her Lord gave her a new body. In that moment I was wearing purple, heart and soul. I was not wearing black. And I never would again.

Recently, a lovely woman in the church died. She was 89 and had been very sick. My pastor calls her the matriarch of the church and I think he is right. Again, it was the night before a funeral and my sister-in-law was getting out clothing. And again she was getting out black. But I did have any black to wear and I was glad. I was glad because I did not want to wear black. So I had a good excuse. I did not wear black. I wore purple. This beautiful saint is with her God. And she does not hurt and she can walk and jump and dance. I wore purple and I looked at her body lying peacefully in the casket and thought about Heaven.

My brother wears black. He wears black for many reasons one of which is that black is the color of mourning. Black is the color of grief. Black is the color of death. He wears black because this world hurts and he mourns for it. He wears black because this world hurts him and he mourns for that pain. And, quite frankly, he wears black because he likes it. It looks right on him. Any other color and he looks like he’s wearing the wrong skin. I wear color. I wear yellow, blue, purple and even red. I wear color because God has promised that we will not hurt forever. He has promised that a day will dawn that will never end. He has promised that I will dance with my mother again and that we will never have to say goodbye. I wear color to remember the joy that is coming. And, quite frankly, I look right in colors. I look like my skin finally fits. I look like my skin is finally comfortable to live in. And so I do not wear black.

I believe that one day Jesus will return for His saints and take us all to be with Him forever. But, I do not know when that day will come. I do not know if it will be tomorrow or a thousand years from now. If it is a thousand years from now, or even a hundred, I will die before He comes. In my life I will hurt and cry and scream in pain. We live in a world full of sin. Pain is around every corner and it is in every moment of every day. Sometimes the pain is so much that I start to feel black. But then a beautiful voice says to me, “Hold on. Hold on, my child. The pain is just for a moment. Life everlasting is coming. Hold on just a little bit longer and I will bring you into purple forevermore.” When I die you are all invited to my funeral, but please do not wear black. Wear lilac or violet or grape. Wear bright and vibrant colors. Wear the color of the sunset or the purple of your daughter’s favorite dress. Wear a reminder that this age is already passing by. Wear the reminder that Death is dead. Wear the color of the resurrection. Please do not wear black. Except for Seth. He’s allowed.