|
It was a Sunday morning, raw and drizzling. The door to the cabin wouldn’t close as it was too swollen to fit into its frame. We’d been cold all night, and now we headed to Mass in a nearby amphitheater. The benches were wet. The rain had stopped, but the branches and leaves were still dripping. The ground was puddly, still frozen.
The priest distributed lyrics on limp papers, and we sang a tired hymn. Someone volunteered to be the lector, and read in monotone voice. I began to wonder why we even showed up. I had a spark of hope that the priest might save the day with an inspirational nugget in his homily, but he was as lackluster as the reader.
Also, there was no color to be seen. Tree trunks, gravel paths, pine boughs and the wooden altar were just shades of gray and black and white. I began the day cranky, and now I was fully convinced I was justified in my mood.
As we settled into the second half of Mass, I began to notice birds singing. Too many different songs to count. Squirrels and chipmunks moved all around us, from branch to branch to puddle to boulder to bush. The woods were alive with their darting. The branches were beautiful in the fog.
I was sitting in the middle of a monochrome world, but it was suddenly as beautiful as an Ansel Adams landscape. My kids and husband sang the next song and it finally became obvious that the only being not praising God was me. I gave up my fight against the day that was given by God and joined the chorus.
| 
