Little Wren Writes

Red is a lot.

It is not a colour particularly interested in minding its own business. Red wants to be noticed.

It flashes. It warns. It shouts. It stains.
It is stop signs and fire engines and emergency buttons.
It is the angry little notification bubble telling me I have 47 things requiring my attention.

It is heat. Danger. Anger. Passion. Love. Blood.

Red has been given an awful lot of emotional responsibility.

And I suppose that makes sense. There are colours we can look at without feeling particularly strongly about them. I don’t think anyone has ever been emotionally overwhelmed by beige.

Red is different. Red does things to us.

For some people, red is romance. Roses and lipstick and little paper hearts in February. For others, it is celebration. Red dresses. Red carpets. Red ribbons. Christmas decorations pulled from boxes once a year.

Across different cultures, red has carried meanings of luck, prosperity, celebration, power, sacrifice, danger and revolution.

It can mean come here.
It can mean do not come any closer.
Which is quite an impressive range for one colour.

And then there are the red things themselves.

Strawberries. Raspberries. Cherries. Poppies. Autumn leaves that have somehow managed to turn themselves the colour of fire. A really good red front door. The tiny red breast of a robin. Red lollies, which are objectively among the superior lollies and I will not be accepting peer review on this matter.

I like the red of Christmas. The warm red glow of fairy lights. The little red hearts that appear beside messages from people I love. And I love that particular red-orange edge of the sky when the sun is going down and apparently decides subtlety is no longer required.

But there are reds I don’t like.

Red pen on something I’ve worked hard on. Red numbers. Red warning lights appearing on my dashboard. Red lights when I’m already running late. The angry red of skin that’s been hurt. Blood where blood isn’t supposed to be. Bushfire maps. Emergency warnings.

Red has a way of making the body pay attention. Maybe that’s why it has become the colour of danger. We use red when something matters enough that we need people to stop.

STOP.

WARNING.

DANGER.

DO NOT ENTER.

Red says: Notice this.

And perhaps that’s part of why I keep coming back to courage because courage happens in the places where something in us is already flashing red.

When did we decide courage was supposed to feel brave? Because I have rarely felt particularly courageous while doing courageous things.

Usually I feel afraid. My heart beats too quickly. My hands get clammy. My brain helpfully presents seventeen possible disasters. And some small part of me suggests that perhaps we could simply not do the thing and go home instead.

A compelling argument, really. But sometimes we do the thing anyway.

And courage, I think, is red. Not because red is fearless. Quite the opposite. Red is the colour of the body knowing something is happening.

The heart thumping beneath your ribs. Blood rushing. Cheeks flushing. Heat rising. The physical alarm of being a human being who is frightened and would very much like an alternative option, thank you.

Fear has a pulse. Maybe courage does too.

I’ve sometimes imagined courage as the absence of fear. As though courageous people stride confidently towards difficult things with steady hands, excellent posture and inspiring music playing somewhere in the background.

Perhaps some do. How annoying for them.

Most of the courage I’ve encountered is much less cinematic. It is walking into the room when you’d rather stay outside. Having the conversation you’ve rehearsed twelve times.

Saying, I was wrong.

Saying, That hurt me.

Saying, I don’t know.

Saying, I need help.

It is trying something when failure is entirely possible. Showing up again after the last time hurt. Setting a boundary even though someone might be disappointed. Letting yourself be known when hiding feels safer. Standing beside somebody when walking away would cost less. Remaining soft when life has given you plenty of reasons to harden.

Sometimes courage is enormous and public. But sometimes it is so ordinary that nobody else even notices it happened. There is no medal. No applause. No triumphant soundtrack. Just a person whose heart is beating very quickly taking one more step.

And often God is the only one who fully knows what that step cost.

When I think about courage and faith, eventually my mind goes to a garden. Jesus knows what is coming. And he isn’t portrayed as untouched by it. He is distressed. Overwhelmed. He asks if there might be another way.

I find that profoundly comforting because Jesus’ courage wasn’t demonstrated by pretending suffering wasn’t frightening. He didn’t need to become unfeeling in order to be faithful. He felt the weight of what was coming.

And he stayed. He loved. He went. And, eventually, the story becomes very red indeed.

Blood.

Wounds.

Sacrifice.

Love poured out at extraordinary cost.

Which makes me wonder whether courage and love have always been closer than I realised. Maybe courage isn’t about finally reaching the point where you’re no longer afraid. Maybe courage is what happens when, despite the flashing warning signs inside you, something matters enough to take another step.

The person matters more.
The truth matters more.
Love matters more.
Doing what is right matters more.
Hope matters more.
Sometimes simply continuing matters more.
Red can mean danger.
It can mean stop.
It can mean anger and passion and embarrassment and love.
It can mean strawberries and Christmas and traffic lights and blood.
It can tell us to pay attention.

And maybe that’s exactly why, for me, red is the colour of courage. Because courage isn’t pale. It isn’t untouched. It isn’t the absence of fear. It is alive and pumping and sometimes messy.

Sometimes courage roars. But sometimes it shakes. Sometimes it cries. Sometimes it needs somebody to hold its hand. Sometimes it types the message, presses send, and immediately throws the phone onto the other side of the bed because OH NO THEY HAVE SEEN IT.

Sometimes courage is simply a frightened person deciding to take the next step.

Heart thumping. Cheeks flushed. Blood pumping. Very much afraid. Very much alive. And going anyway.

Maybe courage was always red. ❤️