The Color of Hope Is Orange

I'm going to share a poem with you that is one of the best I have read in a very, very long time. And it was written by someone you will not expect. The only strange part is, I almost didn't give myself the chance to read it.

Before I boomeranged back to beautiful Medina, Ohio, I lived in the New Jersey-New York City metro area for five years. That meant riding a lot of trains and subways.

I remember when I used to commute from New Jersey into New York City on New Jersey Transit. I would sit there wondering how many people were doing the exact same thing at the exact same time. How many people were on trains? How many people were on buses? How many people from across the New York metro area were converging on Manhattan all at once?

And somehow, all of that humanity, all of that busyness, would eventually get pushed through just a few small tunnels. That always felt like pressure to me.

And sometimes, life feels the same way.

There are seasons when everything moves at once. Work, family, deadlines, promises, opportunities, decisions. All of it rushing toward one narrow tunnel.

I'm sure you can relate.

At the beginning of this year, I was in one of those seasons. Around that same time, as the busyness of the year was picking up, I had committed to something I really wanted to do. A woman named Jennifer had reached out and invited me to participate in Children's Ink, a beautiful program connected to Roxboro Elementary School in Cleveland Heights.

Hundreds of students submit poems. A handful are selected and honored. Each young writer is paired with a guest from the community, someone from the worlds of arts, media or leadership.

Then, in front of an auditorium filled with students, teachers, parents and families, the guest reads the child's poem aloud while the student sits in a special chair, almost like a throne.

When Jennifer first told me about it, my heart immediately said yes. But sometimes the heart says yes before the calendar has a chance to explain itself. As the event got closer, I started to realize it might be difficult to make it work.

I found myself going back and forth. Should I cancel? Should I not cancel?

The truth is, it would not have been the end of the world if I had canceled, but I could not shake the feeling that this was one of those small decisions that had something deeper at stake.

Luckily, I decided to talk to my wife. And I prayed. And instead of staying on the busyness locomotive heading toward the tunnel, I stepped off for a moment and made my way to Roxboro Elementary School.

It was one of the best decisions I have ever made.

That's where I met Kody, the young elementary school poet I'd be reading for.

Before we walked on stage, he told me, "I'm a little nervous."

I looked at him and said, "You have nothing to be nervous about. Wait until you see the smiles on the faces in that auditorium when they hear your words."

Then Jennifer called us up. Kody sat in the chair where he belonged. And I read his poem.

Thanks, Kody. Anytime I think of the color orange, I'll remember this:

Orange Poem

I'm poured orange in a juice glass.

Mmm.

Refreshing orange taste.

I hear a bouncing basketball in the yard.

Children calling me,

"Come and play. Come and play."

Halloween is the orange-colored time of year.

Leaves turn orange in fall.

Pumpkins and jack-o'-lanterns are everywhere.

And Grandma fills jars with homemade marmalade,

bakes a carrot cake with four orange layers.

We go trick-or-treating.

I'm dressed as a tiger with a long tail.

Nixie, the cat, is in a fox costume.

We've got candies wrapped in orange foil,

some apricots,

some jelly beans,

and a lot of lollipops are also orange.

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