rain, rain
Outside, rain softly falls, soothing sheets like curtains on every side of the porch, and I sit still, watching.
Late afternoon, and God has made a few moments for me to notice the gathering puddles, to trace the splash of drops from finger lengths of upturned leaves, rolling down, down to drip or, finally, to hang, watery gems suspended like tears from the jaw. Rain really is a stunning detail. It is good, the way these showers inspire us to stop our relentless going, the way they softly beckon us to wait. In body as a child I sulked; I chanted rhymes: Rain, rain go away; come again another day. I felt impatient, robbed of wandering adventures outside, where we small humans spent our free time imagining other worlds. In spirit as a child, I clenched my teeth, covered my clean hair with the burdens in my arms, and I ran. I felt impatient, too busy to look. I groaned as rainwater seeped into my shoes. But I am learning to let the storms accomplish their momentary Sabbaths, to find five minutes, at least, to cease. I slip away to the porch or stand at the window and watch the cleansing of things, always thinking of an old friend of mine who, before quitting this place for heavenly lands, had time enough to watch the rain.
It’s a relief, really, the way the rain breaks the heat and, with it, our false selves with their pretense of polish; how it soaks the finish off our facades. The wind rushes, scattering raindrops along my arm, and I smile, remembering a sudden rain that came one morning while Kevin and I were out walking. We were yet a few blocks from home when a scattering of drops dotted our arms and dampened our hair. We began to smell alive with all the earthy scents of birth and death. The shower matured quickly. Rain ran down our cheeks, over our lips, down our chins. Recklessly we flung joy like riches, wide and loud, laughing and sopping. My hair swung in bold, wet slashes. With the rest of Summer’s blooms, we had, in that rain, grown more vivid and also more authentic. These days, I’ve stopped lifting my arms as a shield over my head, as though by my own strength I could stay dry, as though staying dry really matters. God sends His rain to everyone, to the whole and also to the broken, and baptism is good for the soul.
Clouds deepen with the afternoon, and in the shadows, I begin to appreciate the light. It’s odd, that darkness precedes this natural feast, that growth beckons thunder first, and with it, those flashes of lightning that wildly illumine the edges of things. Maybe my dying friend felt drawn to the rain because these elegant, living curtains now make a veil beyond which we find everything new, washed clean, full, resurrected. Beyond falling, the rain produces something; grief produces something. Our trouble produces glory that outweighs it.
Just a moment now, I sit still and listen: This rain, it tells the truth.
