I wipe away a cloud of condensation that blocks my view, hoping to see just a small sliver of sunshine, a tiny ray of hope

In this miraculous land of ours, brilliant days of sunshine are followed by brilliant days of sunshine.  The clear blue skies beckon us, away from the muted whites and beiges and yellows found only indoors, to bask in the sheer serenity of what lies beyond our doorstep. The occasional cloud keeps the scene fresh and ever-changing, affording us the opportunity in the summer to revel in the sudden coolness and in the winter to wait for it to pass so we can toast ourselves in the renewed warmth. Even in the winter, we are nearly always able to enjoy the crispness of the air as the sun pools like melted butter at our feet — inviting, invigorating, intense.

And then there are days, or weeks, like these.

The sun doesn’t bid us a long, lingering farewell; it simply disappears behind a gray carpet, leaving us gasping for a hint of warmth. Sometimes the carpet is a ragged shag, sometimes a flat pile. Some days it’s more like an area rug, with half the sky covered with dirty cotton, the other half a tease, a memory, a wish. But weeks like this, the miasma stretches as far as the eye can see, and the air seems much colder than the thermometer is willing to admit. Even when the rain pauses, taking a deep breath in preparation for the next onslaught, a steady drip-drop-drip can be heard, and never-ending rivulets wend their way through the streets.

Just when we think we’ve seen all that the elements have to throw at us, when gusts of wind turn umbrellas inside out and hoods are useless and the driving rain sneaks in over the tops of our boots and seeps in through the soles, the sleet begins. Harsh and unforgiving, it screams at us to run for cover.

How glad I am to be safely ensconced inside the muted whites and beiges and yellows of my home. How warm and comfortable I am, with the heat running full blast and a hot water bottle at my back. But I need to go out. A chill assaults me even as I think about donning my boots and scarf and gloves and heavy winter coat. I stand, abandoning the warmth of my seat, and trudge toward the window.

I wipe away a cloud of condensation that blocks my view, hoping to see just a small sliver of sunshine, a tiny ray of hope.

Instead, I am assaulted by gray. Dark gray, light gray, charcoal gray. Angry gray. Cold gray. A gray that dims the eyes and dulls the senses. A gray that pulls us down, pushing us toward the dark places inside.

I must go out into that gray. I pull on those boots and fold myself into that scarf and slip into those gloves and push myself into that heavy winter coat. I flip my hood up over my head and tighten the strings so it frames my face.

I walk out of my building, and I’m slapped by a burst of frigid air.

I want to go home.

I peer up into the gray sky, hoping for just the tiniest splinter of sunshine.

I am disappointed. The gray seems to go on forever.

The rain slackens a bit. I’m actually starting to feel warm again. I stuff my gloves into my pocket.

I peer up into the sky, thinking that perhaps the sun has come out. It hasn’t. The sky is still gray as far as the eye can see.

I swallow my despair and pull my hood tight again — almost down to my eyes. And I nearly missed seeing her — a little girl with a bright pink coat and an even brighter yellow scarf. She is racing down the street, laughing at the rain and the wind.

I am startled, not by her laughter but by the sudden burst of color in the face of all that gray.

I watch as she prances down the street. She does not attempt to dodge the drops; she dances with them. She is not intimidated by the gray; she is invigorated by it. The dullness brings out her colors even more.

The very world that seems to me so gray is bringing variety and excitement and joy to another. She thrives not in spite of the gray, the rain, and the cold — but because of it.

Today I can’t see color, only gray. But if others can still see fuchsia and turquoise and saffron then I know they still exist. And I know that one day, I’ll be able to see them, too.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 328)