Life is a fickle thing.  It has given me much, all five thousand days of my life. Some were blessings. And some were not. One particular day, Life gave me lemons. The worst kind. The kind that makes your lips pucker and your teeth grind, the type that makes your throat burn and your eyes water. I wonder, sometimes, if knowing that it was coming would have made it any better. Is it anticipation and fear that makes the actual something more grandiose than it really is? Or is it worse to have the full on impact?
I received the latter. That particular day, my brother was admitted into the hospital with a case of Complex Regional Pain Syndrome. In short, he has to endure constant, torturous pain in his leg. No rest. With the only cure to move it, which makes the pain even worse. Those three months wrecked the lives of everyone in my family. It left a stain no amount of time could remove, even to this day.
Then came the Saturday afternoon that Life gave me a different type of lemons. This time, not the metaphorical kind. It came on a chilly Saturday morning, sometime in late June. My mother and I were just about to drive to the hospital, when we decided on a whim to take a walk in the backyard. Having just moved, we had not yet had the time to familiarize ourselves with the garden that the former owners of our house had had.
"Look!" my mother had exclaimed, already stretching her arm out to reach one of the ripe yellow fruits.  "Lemons!" 
Fresh from our citrus trees, Life had given us three perfect yellow lemons. On the car ride to the hospital, I cradled the three beauties in my hands. They were each the size of an orange, with brilliant bright skin that rivaled my own highlighter. 
Finally, we arrived at the fateful hospital building. As I entered the automatic doors, the sharp astringent smell of hand sanitizer permeated my nostrils. It was cold, and the pastel coloring of the walls did nothing to ease the tremor that ran down my spine. Nor did the children on stretchers or the kids with tubes running through their chests. I shivered.
We made our way upstairs, and I was met with the same awful image of Phoenix, my brother, as I was every time. Black bangs grew past his nose.  An IV ran into his hand, delivering who-knows-what into his veins. Two more needles, each more than a foot long, ran into the nerves of his leg. His foot rested atop the covers, as having the weight of them on top of his leg would be too painful. 
"Hey, Phoenix," I greeted, sitting down next to him. "How're you doing?" One look from his eyes gave me all the information I needed to know. Sighing, I hugged my dad hello. 
Producing the lemons, I showed my brother. "Look, Phoenix! We can make lemonade!" Of course, no amount of enthusiasm could turn his frown upside down. My dad, thankfully, piped in. 
"I think that's a wonderful idea," he emphasized the word 'wonderful' pointedly - "How about we go to the kitchen, and your sister can get some sugar downstairs from the cafeteria?" My mom looked at me, sending a wordless message to "Go Downstairs And Get Some Sugar And Maybe Phoenix Will Want To Make Lemonade Eventually". I nodded and hurried out of the room, eager for something to do. Once in the hallway, I slowed down.
So many sick patients. Downstairs, the cancer ward. Babies with heart transplants. Wheelchairs at a moments notice. Suddenly, a bad fall from a bike didn't sound too bad.  All around me, so much sadness. So much death.  How could anyone leave the building without a picture of this branded into his or her mind forever?
Once in the cafeteria, I spotted a wide metal container of sugar resting next to the napkin dispenser. Using the bottom of my shirt as a basket, I snatched handful after handful of sugar packets for the lemonade, emptying out about a quarter of the basin. I felt like a sugar thief as I hurried out. Only one other occupant was in the elevator when I entered it. The man looked at my stash of sugar packets and gave me an understanding smile. I returned the smile weakly. 
The community kitchen was where I found my family. My mother hacked open the lemons, spraying us all with a fine zesty mist. She squeezed their juicy contents into a pitcher, while my brother and I tore open the packets of sugar and dumped them one by one into the mixture. Their caramel-colored packages grew from a scatter to a pile and finally into a heap. 
Some time in the midst of this process, my brother began to smile. When we were finished, each and every one of our hands was covered in sweet lemony sugar. We must have looked odd: a family making lemonade in the midst of a hospital, laughing through a cloud of despair. 
It may seem like an insignificant act, making lemonade, but on that gloomy day it made all the difference. For life really isn't composed of rainbows and flowery meadows. There are some horribly shadowed parts of it as well.  But to do what we were doing, to make the most of the situation, is to strike a match in the darkness. To feel hope in a place where it seems that all hope is lost, to make your day just that little bit brighter. You can't stop Life from doing what it wants, but making something out of it is your choice entirely. Life gave us lemons, and we made some delicious lemonade.