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Previous Challenge Entry (Level 3 – Advanced)
Topic: Yellow (11/12/09)

TITLE: Yellow Finds Its Place
By Rachel Miller
11/18/09


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My mother is the most ardent fan of the color yellow. She adores yellow roses. I always tried to like it, because she did, but somehow I never quite managed. At the age of ten, I bought a little globe, filled with water and a delicate, yellow rose for her birthday. I bought it because I knew she would like it, but to me there was something terribly insincere about that rose. Yellow itself seemed unnaturally happy. As if it was trying to cheer people up when everyone was already cheerful. In my opinion, yellow was a hypocrite – trying to fulfill a purpose no one had ever called for, creating a station for itself that was not needed.

The years passed, I grew up, and suddenly found myself, no longer at home beneath Montana’s sapphire skies, but as a twenty-year old girl in the cement jungle of Moscow, Russia. Grey winter was melting into a muddy spring. Dirty sidewalks blended into grassless lawns. Concrete-walled apartment buildings towered over the dank city floor. Sun and sky had long been absentee, ever hiding behind a blanket of dark clouds. Life was drab and lonely and colorless.

Easter morning dawned just as grey as any other day, but as the day went on it brightened. In the midst of celebrating that greatest of all holidays, the sun began to shine. While remembering the Savior’s triumph over death and the grave, the clouds rolled away. Even so, there was something missing. There were few flowers in the yards of Moscow in those days. The leaves of the spring that lay on the horizon had yet to appear on the trees. There was little advertising to brighten up the streets. Most cars were dull – pale green, white, slate blue – nothing that would bring color to the world around them. And so the long journey home through the melting slush and snow was just that, long and encumbered by the weight of heavy winter boots and coat.

That day, for some reason, my path took me to the dining room of the orphanage where I was serving as a missionary. I do not remember why, and I do not suppose it matters now, but one thing I will never forget is the sight that met my eyes as I stepped inside. It took my breath away. Our dining room seated three hundred people. On that day the tables were set carefully as if to meet a king. The dishes were precisely aligned, the chairs in perfect position. At every place, in every glass, struck by the golden sunlight that flooded through the room’s many windows, was a brilliant yellow napkin. The room glowed with their light, and my color-starved soul drank it in. Suddenly, the joy of Easter was expressed in the radiance of that room. Yellow had found its voice. It cried out that the sorrows of sin and its penalty must weigh upon us no more. It sang the Redeemer’s praise, just as it had always been meant to do. It shouted out salvation’s story. It filled the room with a miniscule portion of the glory of that great resurrection day. And to me, it whispered my Savior’s love.

It may seem silly, but I kept one of those bright, paper napkins. I took it to my color-confused room and spread it carefully over the crate that served as my nightstand. There it lay cheerfully for months, and every time I saw it I remembered the day that yellow found its place.


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Terry R A Eissfeldt 11/19/09
What a wonderful memory. Vividly told.