Visibility

It's the dutiful, respectable cousin of midnight black and rebellious royal blue. It's the shade of those who like things orderly but not too severe, capable but not intimidating. You wear navy to look formal but not ostentatious, competent but not conspicuous. It's the colour of school uniforms, airline pilots, and the kind of people who own more than one briefcase. It doesn't shout. It doesn't dazzle. It just is.

I bought my first navy blue sweater at a department store in Belfast, way back when department stores were still temples of aspiration rather than crumbling monuments to retail's past. The sweater was extra-soft, marked down in the January sales to kindly-possible rather than extortionate. I remember standing in front of the mirror in the fluorescent-lit fitting room, noting how the deep, almost-black blue seemed to both absorb and reflect the harsh lighting, creating a softly generous halo around my shoulders. The sweater made me feel like I could perhaps dare to understand the subtle art of being a grown-up.

That's the thing about navy: it's the colour of quiet authority. It's what you wear when black feels too severe, too final, too much like you're auditioning for a role in a French art-house film. It's the colour of competence, of trustworthiness, of people who need to be relied upon at a glance. It is responsible without being dull and elegant without showing off.

But navy is also the colour of the night sky just before it goes completely dark, when the last traces of sun still paint the horizon, and the first stars begin to appear. It's the colour of the sea at depth, where mysteries dwell. It contains multitudes: depending on the light, navy can appear almost black, or rich and purple-tinged, or soft and dusty like faded denim. It's a colour that rewards close attention.

And yet, here I am, still in the groove of the navy phase. Not the deep, romantic navy of the ocean at night, but the kind you see in a typical safe jacket. My choices swim in this sea of sameness: nothing too bright, nothing too bold. Practical. Reliable. Comfortable. And also, unremarkable.

It's funny how that happens. You start choosing safe colours, and soon, you start choosing safe choices. You go to the same type of restaurants. Order the same coffee. Plan travels, leaving no room for surprise. Your life becomes a series of well-pressed navy sweaters, folded neatly in a drawer. Predictable. Polite. Not a wrinkle out of place.

But what if God is calling us to be more visible? What if the creator of peacocks, rainbows, and breathtaking sunset skies is whispering, "My child, why do you tuck yourself away in deep navy when I have woven your spirit in radiant crimson and shimmering gold?"

I remember a man I met in East Anglia, his shirts and style a complete riot of colours that seemed to dance when he walked. "Brother Johnny," he told me with a laugh that bubbled up from somewhere authentic, "I spent forty years wearing what I was supposed to wear. Now I dress for the little boy inside me who never got to pick." His eyes sparkled with the light of someone who had discovered a small but significant freedom.

Once, I bought a pair of ridiculous orange-brown sale shoes. I don't know why. They made me look like a construction worker who'd lost his way, But they made me smile. And when I wore them out of the store, something felt different. I got brave. The world tilted, just slightly, toward joy.

After that, the colours started creeping back in. A green scarf. A blue shirt: not navy, but bright sky blue, the kind that makes you think of summer. Nothing too wild at first. I didn't want to frighten the neighbours. And soon, I was wearing mottled socks to meetings and a mustard sweater even on Mondays. People noticed. "Nice shoes," they'd say. "Great scarf!" And I noticed, too. The way colour lifted me and nudged me back toward something I hadn't realised I'd been missing.

And this navy blue has been my spiritual uniform: safe, predictable, and unable to offend. But isn't the gospel itself a scandal? Isn't grace wildly unexpected? The God who runs to embrace prodigals doesn't seem overly concerned with convention.

I'm not suggesting we all dress like carnival performers. But I wonder what would happen if we allowed ourselves small rebellions against the tyranny of the boring. What if the businessman wore socks with dinosaurs hidden beneath his navy pants? What if the grandmother chose purple instead of taupe? What if we acknowledged that God's fingerprints can be found in vibrant colour as surely as in subdued tones?

The Japanese have a word, "aonuma," which refers to the rich blue-black colour of a horse's coat. It speaks of depth and dignity, of strength contained. Navy blue shares something of this quality: it suggests depths below the surface, hidden resources, quiet confidence. Seen but best not noticed.

But the trouble with too much navy is that it starts to blend into the background, and so do we. We forget how to stand out and how to take risks. We forget that sometimes life wants us to show up in reckless red or defiant yellow, unafraid to be seen.

The beautiful gospel tells us we're loved in our mess, cherished in our brokenness. Perhaps it's time to extend that grace to our wardrobe choices as well: to wear what brings us life rather than what just keeps us appropriate.

It's not that navy is bad. Navy is fine. Navy is solid. But it's not everything. Life isn't meant to be one shade. It's meant to be messy, full of unexpected, wonderful things. The trick isn't to throw away all the navy; it's to remember that it doesn't have to be the only option.

So now, when I open the wardrobe, there are increasing flashes of colour among the navy. An invitation to join my brightly coloured friends. And hope, I've realised, isn't beige or grey, or navy. Hope is bright. Hope demands attention. It says, Here I am. Look at me.

Somewhere, buried near the back of my wardrobe, there's still an orange-bright sweater waiting for its second chance. And one of these days, I think I just might wear it…