Spain's Rainbows of Hope and Stop. Halt. Hush.

By Marci Renée, Madrid, Spain

Everywhere I looked, I saw rainbows.

Not every house, but many, had children’s drawings of rainbows taped to the front gates or the inside of the glass window panes.

Curious, I got up as close as I could to one of the drawings from the sidewalk, to admire its beauty. I had also noticed some writing on the drawings.

There was a rainbow connecting two clouds. A handprint stood prominently in the middle of the page, just underneath the rainbow.

It had two hashtags at the bottom of the paper: #yomequedoencasa and #juntospodemos.

Even with my limited Spanish, I knew what those words meant:

“I stay at home.” “Together we can.”

The drawings were signed by the children– Carla and Marta.

The next day, I saw my neighbor outside sweeping her driveway. She was my “insider” for cultural awareness and cultural learning. I always had a lot of questions for her. I was eager to learn, and she was eager to teach me about Spain– her home country, culture, and language.

I had noticed that she had two rainbow drawings in her windows as well.

“I saw your children’s drawings in the windows. What do the rainbows mean?” I asked her.

“They are a symbol of hope,” she said. “It reminds us that we will get through this to the other side.”

“That’s beautiful,” I said. “Does it come from the Bible– the story about Noah’s Ark? The rainbow came after the storm as a sign of hope for the future of the world.”

“Yes, it’s like that,” she said.

I smiled as I remembered comparing the confinement of my children to the wild animals trapped and locked up in Noah’s Ark for more than 40 days. When they were finally let out for some exercise and physical activity, it was as if the door finally opened. They found freedom for the first time– in a long time!

We are beginning to experience freedom little by little, here in Spain. Perhaps you are, as well, in your part of the world.

We will get to the other side of this global pandemic. We will see the rainbow.

For now, let’s join all the Spanish children who, with child-life faith and hope, believe that the storm will pass and the rainbow will come.

Let’s declare together around the world, “Together we can!”

Maybe today is a good day to grab a blank piece of paper and some markers. Maybe today is a good day to draw and color a rainbow. Maybe today is a good day to tape your picture of hope on the glass window pane of your house for all the world to see. Maybe today is a good day to believe.

“Mom, look outside!” my seven-year-old son screamed as he barreled up the stairs to where I was sitting in my bedroom. “Look outside!”

We stood at the window together, in awe and amazement.

There it was . . . high in the sky . . .

A rainbow . . . a rainbow of hope . . . for you . . . for me . . . for the world.

Stop. Halt. Hush.

By Marci Renée, Madrid, Spain

Stop. Halt. Hush.

It seemed like my entire world had come to a sudden stop . . . a halt . . . a hush . . . one like I have never known before.

I welcomed it from the start. The quiet. The peace. No more frantic school runs, hurried packed lunches, loud soccer practices and games. No more brain-teasing Spanish classes, long drives into the city, and stressful work meetings.

Stop. Halt. Hush.

I noticed it most on Easter morning. It was a radical change from our family’s norm. Typically, it was an early, busy, chaotic frenzy, trying to get a family of six up, dressed, fed, and out the door on time.

Church, people, noise, schedule, running . . . sometimes moving so fast through the day and the events that we missed the meaning, missed the significance, missed entirely the encounter with the Divine.

Ritual, tradition, same ‘ole . . .

But, not this year.

Stop. Halt. Hush.

This year was different.

The year was one of rest—sleeping into the late morning hours until my body decided it was ready to wake to a new day. Cooking a nice breakfast of cinnamon rolls and omelettes, alongside my husband and children. Taking a late morning walk, in the cool breeze, gazing on the distant mountains. Watching an online Easter service—basking in the presence of God in my own living room. Taking an afternoon nap, reading, weaving, writing, relaxing.

Stop. Halt. Hush.

I had a choice. I could resist this new rhythm, or I could welcome it.

I could perceive this new flow as a gift, a beauty, an opportunity to create something new, something better—a new pattern, a new way of living.

I had a choice.

I chose to welcome this divine gift, this “new normal.”

I don’t want to go back to my old life, to my world before it all . . .

Stopped. Halted. Hushed.

So, I won’t.

I will forever . . .

Stop. Halt. Hush.

And touch God’s divine presence in my life like never before.