Color Me Happy

Color Me Happy

Grieving has always been somewhat of an ironic experience for me. When I’m not grieving, I feel like I should be. When I am, I feel like I shouldn’t. I seem unsympathetic when I don’t grieve with others, yet when I grieve alone, I consider myself to be emotional and weak.

And then sometimes, grief just happens.

 Last year was my freshman year of college, and as the anniversary of my dad’s death approached, I found myself warning my roommate: “I'm kind of a compulsive, sporadic griever, and I don’t have any idea of what that’s going to look like this year, so I just want you to be prepared.”

September 12 came, and I woke up feeling okay, until I remembered. Even though I had already been grieving- grieving the anticipation of this day, grieving the news that my cousin had entered hospice care, grieving the loss of life as I knew it (think grief doesn’t come along with going to college? Think again!), I had this heavy feeling that of all days, today was the day I was supposed to be grieving.

            I was a grouch, dragging my feet about the room as I got ready for the day. I wanted sympathy, I wanted Rebecca to say “Oh you poor thing!” and throw compliments and “you’re so strong”s at my feet. I was standing at my closet, pulling out a pair of dark jeans and a black t-shirt when I heard her voice behind me. “You should wear something happy,” she said.

            Rebecca totally caught me off guard. She wasn’t being mean, but she certainly wasn’t babying me, and for some reason I was offended. But I picked out my most colorful shirt anyways.

         

           One of the hardest things of coming to college was the fact that I no longer felt known. I was no longer the super smart kid because practically everyone at Wheaton was top of their class. I was no longer one of the only Christians, no one knew that I was a songwriter or had gone to state for badminton. And most importantly, no one knew that I had lost my dad.

            Suddenly, everything I had found my identity in in high school was stripped away. I couldn’t have expected anyone to know, I didn’t like to talk about it, but I was bitter when the anniversary rolled around and no one in my immediate circles acknowledged the tragedy. 

            But they did compliment my shirt. And in some strange way, it helped a lot. Even if these people I had only lived with for a couple of weeks didn’t know my life story, they knew enough about how to love to throw out a smile and a compliment. It’s the little things on the darkest days that can often mean the most.

            So this morning I woke up, walked to my closet, and pulled out my “happy” shirt.

            I will never be happy I lost my dad. I will never be happy when I watch girls on a father-daughter date, or see my friends’ dads walking them down the aisle. I will never be happy on September 12. But I can wear happy colors, and give people grace.

           Written across the bathroom mirror this morning was “Let Emily Trowbridge know how much you appreciate her today”. I was a soggy mess as I cried while brushing my teeth. Only a few of the freshmen on my floor have any clue as to why the message was there, but they don’t care. They are still showering me with blind love today, just because that is who they are. Acknowledgment of loss is important, and I am so thankful for the friends who I am able to talk about my dad with. But sometimes just knowing you are cared for is enough to make you, well, happy.

            Daddy, I wish you could meet all of these friends who I have been blessed with. Know that your little girl is taken care of, and that she is seeing the joy that God gives.

Color Me Happy

Color me happy

Color me true

Color me roses

Gold trim round the room

Color me happy

All day and all night

Not letting lonely

Fight the good fight

Color me happy

In torrents of grief

Color me raindrops

And brims of relief

Color me happy

As happy I choose

Hurt isn’t always

Just five shades of blue