Melody on a Mountaintop: It's Not Easy Being Green

I wore my brand new green skirt that day.

It was vivid and fresh and certainly hard to miss, given that it was early January, when colors often bury themselves deep in the recesses of a closet.

But this day deserved something bright.  Something hopeful.

Green--the color of newness, birth, revitalization.

And...reconciliation?

It had only been a week or so after I had been served with divorce papers, but events had led to him calling me that previous Friday night with a certain ambiguity in his voice and a promise of bringing Harlow to our church with him that Sunday.

He was coming with me to church?

Needless to say, this was an unexpected twist in the plot, which I was naively sure was indicative of the change of heart for which I had prayed.

So, yes.  The green skirt seemed perfectly in line with my anticipated reconciliation.

In the car on the way to church that morning, I was overcome with intense nervousness and excitement.

Excitement.  Something that had eluded me for several months at that point.  I had forgotten what it felt like to look forward to something, rather than tolerating the hours as they passed.

We sat together, side by side, but not nearly like old times.  There was a clear line drawn between the two of us on that pew.  He dared not cross it, and I dared not force him.

By the time the afternoon rolled around, and we had worshiped together and eaten lunch as a "family," I found myself in the living room of my parents' house with him, waiting for the words he was obviously hesitant to muster.

Here it comes! I thought.  My suddenly! My answer to my prayers! The restoration of my marriage!

But instead, it turned out to be more of a cruel joke.  Reconciliation was still completely out of the question for him, and I was told that he was no longer in love with me.

The numbness was captivating.  How could I have been so stupid?

He had taken a sledgehammer to my hopes and beaten them into a brokenhearted dust.  He left me that day in uncontrollable tears.

And like the other colors of summer that hid from the bitter winter winds, I laid my green skirt to rest.

Every following Sunday, when I would search for something nice to wear to church, that green skirt would hearken betrayal and misery, and I couldn't bring myself to pull it from the hanger.

Green.  The color of restoration.  A restoration that, it didn't seem, was ever going to happen.

So there it would hang sadly, sandwiched in the middle of the closet, where my glance would fall every time I opened the door.

Until one cheery, warm Sunday morning when I vowed that the past could no longer hurt me.

And I found that God can even redeem a green skirt.