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I prayed for yellows— meadows of flowers, sunshiny breakfasts, warm laughter with good friends.

I prayed for greens— cool evenings, long quiet walks, days spent lying under trees and watching breezes dance in the leaves.

I prayed for oranges— tempestuous invigorating debates, slow kisses, intense whispers, fiery callings, definite urgent leadings.

I prayed for purples— glory and fame, instances of basking in the fawning of admirers, the swirl of social gatherings centered around me.

I even prayed for blues— the wracking sobs that give full relief, the deep sorrow that cleanses like a flood, the communal grief that creates forever bonds.


But instead, You gave me reds— a pulsing, aching, longing, unanswered desire;  a straining, reaching, fingertips-nearly-touching chase; a throbbing, insistent, terribly-perfect silence.

I think I cannot bear it.  I crouch, scream, weep, plead, outright beg for this terrible silent red to be broken.
But You are firm and do not relent.

I cannot, cannot, cannot . . .

And then I remember . . .

it was this red that You suffered, endured, for me.  It was this red that You shouldered as Your love spilled out in rich waves from Your heart.  It was this red that You screamed against— My God, why have You forsaken Me?!?— as Your ears strained for a Voice, a word, a whisper even, from Heaven.



It was this red that You saw through to the end . . . for me.

I remember this, and it makes me strong.

And I realize . . . the red doesn’t mean there will be no joyful yellows.
(It was the most ecstatic yellow that followed three days later.)

It doesn’t mean there will be no peaceful greens.
(It was the deepest green that was purchased in those moments.)

It doesn’t mean there will be no ardent oranges.
(It was the most burning orange that impassioned You to complete Your task.)

It doesn’t mean there will be no glorious purples.
(It was the most awing purple that was made available through Your actions.)

And it obviously doesn’t mean there will be no wracking blues.
(It was the most grievous blue that You left in Your wake.)

But it is hard to live in, this silent tortuous red.  It forces me to examine everything in its light.  It compels me to admit the truth about all things— even about myself.  It is excruciating and terrifying and difficult.

But I think it is only in the light of the red— the memory of Your agony; my own endurance and acceptance of the unanswered questions— that I can begin to see the vibrance of the yellows and the greens and the oranges and the purples and the blues.

Is it worth it, this terrible invasive all-encompassing throbbing walking-by-faith silence?

I study the shimmer of colors and promises through the lens of the red, and I have just one answer.

Yes.

It is, indeed, worth it.