Year of Rainbows

Life Stuff

Year of Rainbows

All summer I wanted to see a rainbow. I couldn’t have told why it felt so important to me, but rarely have I longed for a tangible token as I longed for a rainbow last summer.

I sat on the swing one warm day, pleading through tears for grace to keep being valiant as adrenal fatigue sapped me of energy and endurance. Suddenly, without warning, it was raining.

On a bright day like this, surely that meant a rainbow somewhere, but trees obstructed a large view of the sky. Maybe I’d be rewarded if I made the effort to find it, if I made the choice to go search when I’d rather sit here and cry. I walked up the rise on the lawn.

I searched the sky opposite the sun. Would God reward my intentional effort? A blue sky with a few little clouds looked guilelessly back down at me. There had to be a rainbow—the sun was shining, but it was definitely raining. Wasn’t that the right combination? Light with water falling through it.

“Please, God, a rainbow today would feel like a token,” I said, my eyes on the sky. “I haven’t seen one in so long.” But there was no answer, no arc, not even a fragment of the pastel symbol I sought.

My tears mingled with the rain. “Lord, why will You not show me a rainbow? Does this rain mean nothing?”

I stood there in the grass, feeling weak and, worse, let down. This was not my day to see a rainbow, but why? What was God saying?

A shudder seemed to pass through my spirit. “Okay, God,” I said through more tears, “I will stop pleading for the rainbow.” Instead, I surrendered to the drops on my shoulders and breathed in the damp scent of receptive earth. Today, I could choose to trust without a token, to believe even when God seemed silent, to remember that even though my anguish was part of my story, it was not the story.

Other people were seeing rainbows. From three different places—southern Ontario, Pennsylvania, and West Virginia, friends sent breath-taking photos. Why them, I wondered. Why not me? Then I remembered the peace of surrendering in faith, without tokens.

A few days later, on a Sunday, we were sitting at the table with Edward’s parents, who were visiting. Edward Dale came in from a four-wheeler ride. “Did you see the rainbow?” he asked, pulling out his phone to show us a picture.

“No! Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t have service back Ramsbottom Road—and you couldn’t have seen it from here anyway.”

I turned to the others. “I’ve been wanting to see a rainbow…” I told them about my search several days previous.

“What time was it?” my father-in-law asked.

“Early afternoon, maybe two?”

“So the sun was too high. The higher the sun, the lower the rainbow,” he explained.

Ah. I had forgotten.

Someone else from church posted the same rainbow my son had seen—big and bright, but not for me. I sighed. “Yes, God, I guess it’s okay. But…”

That was in July. That month, my 10-year-old painted a rainbow in brilliant strokes and gave it to me. I hung it on the fridge.

On a bright, bright day in August, a sundog flashed iridescent colors all around the sun. Maybe that counted, but it wasn’t a rainbow in the proper scientific way.

August wore on, sunny and dry. I struggled to keep praising even though my weakness frightened me sometimes. I sang from my place on the swing:

O joy that seekest me through pain,

I cannot close my heart to Thee.

I trace the rainbow through the rain…

My voice faltered. “Lord, there is no rainbow to trace.” When I was able, I went on:

…And feel the promise is not vain—

That morn shall tearless be.*

The promise is not vain. I had to keep believing when feelings would tell me otherwise; keep watching.

One evening in September, Lyndell drove me around the mill yard in the side-by-side. The vibration of the little vehicle and the freshness of outside air soothed me at the end of the tormented day. This particular day had been rainy, but just before the sun dropped over the horizon, the clouds parted enough to brighten earth before dimming it for the night. I scanned the eastern sky. There should be a—then I saw it. “There’s a rainbow!” I shouted above the noise of the Rhino. Lyndell could not know why the tears traced down my cheeks. He kindly drove me to a good vantage point so I could see.

It was faint and lasted only a short time—I couldn’t even capture it on a photo—but I knew it had been there, and that it was real.

October came in a blaze of sad glory, and other people kept posting pictures of rainbows—bright, beautiful arches in northern Ontario, in Alberta, in North Carolina. I saw none. But I remembered my pale September gift, and kept hoping.

In October, an insulated mug with an acrylic lid somehow made a jaunty rainbow on the cupboard door as I worked alone in the kitchen one day. I smiled at it and nursed my hope. One morning, the sky boasted a muted smudge of pink and blue. Was it part of a rainbow?

The first of November. Clouds filled most of the sky, but an early morning glimpse of sun between them lured me. In faith, I walked to the garden where I could see the western sky, where I might see a rainbow. There was no rainbow, only moody clouds. Light from beyond them glowed luminous on the leafless trees. It was not what I had come to see, but its beauty kept me there to gaze. It reminded me that God was close to me, although I did not see a bow in the clouds. I thought fleetingly that the opportunities for rainbows were over now, until spring. Winter is not rainbow season.

The month wore on.

One day, we went shopping in the city. Dark clouds slated the far western sky grey, but sunshine still smiled where we were. As we came out of Value Village, Lanette pointed. “There’s a little piece of rainbow over there!”

I couldn’t see it. But then, to the right, I saw the other end—a short bar of seven-hued light. But it was already fading, and I had no time to stand and gaze. We loaded into the van and headed for Dollarama.

As we drove, the rainbow reappeared, clearer and brighter than before. We glimpsed it between high, sprawling buildings as we wove through traffic.

Our destination bordered a more open part of the city, and we had a clear view of the sky. As we reached the store, before Edward even had the gear lever in park, I jumped out. “I need to take some pictures!” I flung over my shoulder. Finally, truly, brightly—a rainbow.

The shower moved closer. The sky darkened, providing a dramatic backdrop for the brightening rainbow. The children were gathering behind me by now, and we gazed at the sky with exclamations of wonder. As we watched, the rainbow became a complete arch. And then—I couldn’t believe my eyes—a second bow, fainter, yet clearly visible and complete, appeared above it.

Behind me, the children cried, “It’s double!” But my eyes and heart were only for God. Earth faded to a lesser reality as I became lost in His smile. A rainbow—my rainbow.

And there I was—in the city, surrounded by children—so I couldn’t even cry the way I wanted to. I took some photos, of course, and then reluctantly turned to enter the store. “Thank You, Jesus!” Audible words escaped my lips.

Kaden turned from skipping ahead of me. “What did you say?”

I smiled. “It’s okay. I wasn’t talking to you.”

I tried to maintain an outward semblance of the competent shopper as I added paper plates, napkins, and cheap toys to my cart. But my soul wept grateful tears of sheer wonder and joy.

That evening, sitting on the swing once again, gazing into a sky now filled with stars, I thanked God for the rainbow with all the poor and proper words I could think of, and I cried.

That night, after I was in bed and the house was quiet, I cried again.

The message of that rainbow still arches over my heart. God cared about my hard year—cared enough to answer my prayer for a rainbow even after I had stopped asking. I wanted a rainbow in the summer; He gave me one in the fall, after I thought hope was gone until another spring. I wanted at least a little bar of rainbow; He gave me a full, brilliant, double arch.

He still makes all things beautiful in His time. He is still able to do abundantly above what I ask or think.

*O Love That Will Not Let Me Go, by George Matheson