I remember spending an entire sacrament meeting industriously coloring a single page in my Aladdin coloring book--an image of Jasmine being caught stealing an apple from the market vendor, Aladdin rushing to intervene; Jasmine's jewelry winking out from beneath her disguise's hood.
I had finished everything else and was torn between giving the vendor pink or purple shirt sleeves. I decided, committed completely, and colored it in with dark pink washable markers, only to end up disliking how it looked with the rest of what I'd chosen and crying over having ruined my picture.
I felt a deep regret at having enacted my choice and being unable to go back to change it to another one instead. I met my 6 or 7 year-old self's road diverging on the coloring page, creating genuine sorrow at my poor-fitting path. I'd marred irreparably my own work of art, striping it of my childlike joy and passion in a matter of minutes. The keenness of that particular regret is easily accessible as I review my memory, even three decades of experience later.
The meeting ended and people began to filter out of the chapel. I sniffled into my Mom's shoulder while she tried to calm me, until a pretty teenage girl, sporting a blond early 90's perm, stopped and asked my Mom why I was upset. When told, she asked if I would show her my coloring and kindly coaxed me into doing so. I don't remember what she said, but I know I stopped feeling badly and started smiling.
From that point on, although I'd never seen her before, let alone talked with her, I sought her out every Sunday to say hello. Her one small act of a few minutes at most turned me into her devoted and loyal friend. Even when I moved 2,000 miles away, we became pen pals and kept up a correspondence for nearly 10 years.
I'm glad I haven't lost the depth of feeling that yes, sometimes means I get more upset than others would in similar circumstances, but also allows me to recognize and respond with joy to kindness and beauty others often overlook.
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