Today was a gray day. A day even Bob Ross could not paint for want of color. There was no thrashing downpour to give the day uncompromising expression. There were only wan clouds. There was no wind gusting from far-off countries to carry exotic aromas. There were no swirls of flakes to at least chill the air and give lonely men something to complain about. The suns incandescent rays swore themselves from the parched, yellow grass. There was no golden light to illuminate girls' flyaways like gleaming halos. All sound was muted somehow, like the land was holding its breath, biding its time for something to happen. But nothing did.
Because of that tempered silence, rapture took measured breaths. The clouds were august in their austerity. They draped themselves like a heavy-stitched quilt over couch cushions and kitchen chairs. And the people huddled underneath them like refugees—their own breath creating stifling humidity. Not even the slow-returning birds could muster melody. Although the pallid, naked branches were starting to bloom, their efforts made the scene look like a funerary pall rather than spring sprouting.
Today reminded me of a story from Elder Boyd K. Packer. A missionary came to him and admitted feeling discouraged and a little depressed. He said of the event, “Unless there was an unusual reason for these feelings, my answer was ‘Well, I’m glad to hear that. At least now we know that you’re normal. Enjoy the feeling—it probably won’t last. And the first sunny day will do wonders for it.’ It helps a great deal if we realize that there is a certain healthy element in getting the blues occasionally. It is quite in order to schedule a good, discouraging, depressing day every now and again just for contrast."
Today was that day.
[Keep Following.]
No comments:
Post a Comment