My five-year-old son has a peculiar but wonderful sense of color. When he draws, skies are orange and squirrels are purple. Clouds are triangular and pink. Trees have legs that stretch off the page in neon green. Who am I to correct his perception of the world? Works for him, so it works for me.
What I love most is that no matter what color he sees in the sky that day, he smiles at it. When we leave in the morning we could be looking at cobalt blue dotted with hawks hunting for their breakfast, wispy fog, or gray and overcast. He could be seeing the orange of his drawings or the blue and white I usually see. Whatever it is, no matter what the day offers, he always takes a moment to look, and therefore so do I.
It’s the blessed breath before the day. He may not be happy about where we’re going. I may still be annoyed about how long it took for him to get his shoes on. No matter what color we see or want to see, when we stop in those few moments to notice the beauty of what rises above us, we are grateful to be beneath it together.