Generally, this isn't a word to describe me. I'm a fan of quiet, and its many variations. Relaxed. Gentle. Whispering. Soothing. Loud usually isn't what I go for. Unless it's music. Or laughter. Or joy. Those I like in wild, raucous stretches.
But these days, the only things that have been loud in my life are those I'd like to mute for awhile. Things like sadness. Fear. Dissatisfaction.
I try, I really do, to make the joy louder than the not-joy. Positive thoughts. Scripture truths. Prayer. Rest. Ice cream :-).
But my attempts to follow all the right steps, to hush up these not-joy-noises work about as well as Christian-bumper-sticker-slogan bandaids. They don't really cure the problem. Actually, the fact that they don't help only adds to the angst. Makes it even louder. Almost unbearably so.
In the moments when those other noise-makers are drowning out what I so long to hear, I must remember. No, I have to remember this: Sorrow's sound may last for a dark season, but it has its designated end. And when it does, then . . . . joy. It will come shining and singing, like the beams of the sun as it first peeks, then blazes, laughing, into the bright blue morning sky. Lovely. And loud.