With yesterday being the 4th of July, I, as well as many others, found myself sitting in a lawn chair, looking up at the evening sky as it filled with fireworks. I was surrounded by my family, as well as hundreds of strangers, and we all “oohed” and “ahhed” in unison, shrieking and geeking over the mix of colors and sounds, even though we’ve all seen them many times before.
Oftentimes, in these moments of undeniable awe, my mind will wander. Searching for inspiration, wisdom or—more often than not—super cheesy metaphors. Last night, I got a heavy dose of cheese.
It was about halfway through the show, when the fireworks really started to pick up. Everywhere I looked they were booming and falling to the beat of a patriotic song. I watched as the small orange sparks snaked their way into the dark sky and then burst into magnificent displays of color and sound. Some were easy to follow from the ground up, others seemed to sneak by me, lighting up the sky in a radiant surprise.
It reminded me a lot of life. (Warning: cheese ahead!) How sometimes it can seem as though we spend forever looking up at a dark sky, waiting for something amazing to happen. Waiting, hoping, praying that any second it will come to life with all the colors we’ve worked so hard to find. And sometimes we’ll find them. Sometimes the sky will awaken in ways we never imagined and we’ll find ourselves drowning in gratitude and wonder. Other times however, the sky will stay dark. We’ll sit out there in our (now figurative) lawn chairs, waiting and waiting, and yet the colors will not come.
I’ve been there. Waiting. Craning my neck up at a dusky sky, expecting nightfall to bring something incredible. I’ve been there when there were fireworks and when there was silence. I’ve left awed and I’ve left disappointed. The important thing is to keep looking. To keep seeking. To keep parking your car over a mile away and hiking up to a spot you heard from a friend of a friend will provide a good view. Because no matter how long the sky stays dark, it will always come to life again. Sometimes in ways we expect. Sometimes in ways we don’t. Sometimes in big grand displays, sometimes in small, beautiful flashes.
Last night, after the show was over, my family and I packed up our things and made our way back down the hill and through the long crowded streets to our car. By the time we saw my mom’s Honda, we were all sweating and tired, ready for bed even though it meant the end of a long weekend. But even though our eyes grew heavy, we smiled, for the trek up and back had been worth it, as always. And as such, we knew we’d make the very same trip next year to do it all over again. In the meantime, we’ll work hard. We’ll be patient and kind and diligent as we seek other sources of color to light up our skies. Sometimes we’ll even find that we can be the long awaited color in the dark sky of another.
If we want to get really cheesy with it—which let’s face it, WE DO—we’ll say it like Katy Perry once (or perhaps 2000 times due to radio overplay) said it: baby, you’re a firework. Come on let your colors burst.
Let them light up your own sky, let them light up the sky of another. Let them remind you of the colors to be seen in the nights that follow those plagued by darkness. Because don’t you know that therrrre’s still a chance for youuuu, ‘cause there’s spark in youuu, you just gotta igniiite the lighhht and letttt it shiiine just owwnnn the niiiiight like the fourth of Julyyy, ‘cause baby you’re a—well you get it.
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