Pastels

I dressed today in shades of soft pink, muted yellow and pale purple on a field of white without realizing how symbolic it was for me. It isn't often I feel pretty, even though I know I am far from it. I am learning how to forget one who made me feel absolutely beautiful, and know in my heart of hearts that God sees us even more so as exactly that. Beautiful. The expression of His best. Still such a foreign thing for me to really fully believe.

I suppose that's why I had such disdain for flowers in years past. What were they really good for? Vanity of vanities. Yet, as I grow older, I find myself actually aching inside as I drink in the hues, loving the colors and textures and dizzying variations with an inexplicable, almost painful passion.

There's this friend who lost his wife, and while I'd only seen a picture of her once, for some reason I think of her softened by an aura of lavenders. Words, traitorous things . . that they should choose at such a critical time to be completely unable to convey the depth of my wishes for him to heal in ways that will not ever forget her. I cannot even begin to imagine his days, and how his heart must hurt so. How the little things, like having to make his own toast now, or paying for her last dentist bill, or not having to share the hymnal with her at church . .

I'm so glad he finds ways to laugh again.