All rights to the owner

I remember the first time the thought dawned on me.

I sat on our porch swing, rocking from heel to toe, enjoying the rain as it bounced happily off every hard surface in the yard.  I could hear it slap against the glass windows, plunk into the overflowing birdbath,  and tick, like popping corn kernels, off the plastic roofing of our covered deck.  The sweet symphony of sounds left me overawed.  The ambience of flickering lightning combined with the heady aroma of sodden earth and the thunderous applause of a captivated universe made the moment surreal.  I was hooked…but more than that I determined the rain did not fall upon me, it fell for me. 

I could recall in that tide turning moment all the squealing fun I had enjoyed amongst the rain drops.  Puddle stomping in the watery sunlight just after a storm, bike ridding as the water lashed at my face, dance spinning with open arms as my clothes were soaked through.

My happy rain fell steady and warm.  A deluge just begging to be played in.  Even adults would don bathing suits and wash cars in the sudden summer storms.

My peaceful rain was a soft background accompaniment to bird calls, rustling leaves, and cicadas.  It was best enjoyed aesthetically, as the art it was, or over steaming ceramic mugs and hard back books.

My sad rain brought no promise filled rainbows. Only dark cold nights where the trees themselves would claw at the wind searching for reassurance.

My angry rain could shatter the earth.  It came with broken trees, downed power lines, and flash floods.  A torrential downpour which instilled fear and inspired awe.

I loved them all, enjoying them equally.  However, when the winds would rise it was the tempest I called to more often than not.  My displeasure personified, my power multiplied.

I don’t remember what made me quit the rains, perhaps it was the young boy who died just hours after I threw my bad luck skyward pressing the winds to blow my negative energy to another, any other so long as it left my side.  Nonetheless I found myself pulling back, even surprised by rainfall, as I left this burden to mother nature’s capable, though inconsistent, whims.

Now I watch as the rains fall and the storms blow by, but still the need crackles within me to be more than just an observer.  Like the friction of so much heat lightning, waring its way through heavy humid air, I wait to strike again.  For when the winds rise and the clouds darken I find myself anxious for the tumult secretly calling for the squall.


Charles Stanley : God in the mist of the storm