Honestly, it stands out like a sore thumb.
But at the same time, it is refreshing, bright, and, well... Yellow. Which is the color of sunshine and bumble bees (inside the black stripes, of course) and daffodils, all wonderful things.
I continue at the risk of drawing an analogy that's too complex or far-fetched.
It's easy to feel like the yellow mustang in a world full of gray and silver cars. Some of what defines me is absolute: my faith, my family, my husband Curtis (he's very wonderful), my definite introverted personality. Other parts of who I am are a choice: cheerful, buoyant, thoughtful, and careful.
The absolutes are like the parts of the car that it can't run without—engine, axles, gears, tires (a proper mechanic could lend a lot to this analogy).
The choices are like the aesthetics: leather or upholstery, fancy chrome rims, and the paint job.
The problem with people (myself included) is that we struggle to see past the yellow paint. This in turn makes our interactions with most people about as meaningful as a drive-by speculation on the color of someone's car. We assume that everything we see on the outside is everything they are on the inside, and go from there.
It's not practical. It's not relational. But it's certainly easier.
Looking past the paint is hard—it takes work, it takes sacrifice, and it's not always comfortable.
But it's so worth it, because under the paint people are individual, odd, and beautiful, and so much more than just yellow or gray.
The color is very important, but the buck shouldn't stop there.