One of my most found childhood memories involves sitting outside the gate outside my house at the time (before I was living in an apartment). I was sitting there reading a book, which the title I cannot now remember. I was happily reading when I noticed the darkening sky. Distracted, I stopped to watch the clouds move overhead, increasing in number, dark shapes slowly moving across, driving the light away as they go.
The wind had picked up while the clouds moved, seemingly, into position in the sky.
I could see the trees swaying, leaves desperately trying to hand on to their branches, their very lifeline. Of those that had failed, they were scattered across the ground, marking the very passage of their bane, allowing the invisible to be seen.
Suddenly all was still, the wind a fading memory. The dead leaves were still, the very emptiness deafening in their silence. Slowly an echo is heard, then more, increasing in number and tempo, like a marching army approaching. Looking down the road, I see a wave of raindrops coming towards me, leaving a trail of slick in their path. Glancing in the other direction, I saw that it was still dry, yet untouched by the oncoming onslaught.
Mesmerized, I stay where I am, vulnerable book still in my lap and let the rain overrun me. After which, I set the book aside, it’s lines wrinkled, and took a long slow walk down the road, becoming one with the rain.
Since that day I had a new appreciation for the weather, rainstorms in particular. I know no other greater example of the beauty and awesome power of the Creator. But yet, it’s been a long time since I have walked in the rain, or when I am forced to, to enjoy it. Now I’m afraid for the items that I carry on myself and how the rain may spoil them, or likewise even for my appearance.
How I long for those carefree days to enjoy the rain. And I am sadden by the fact that it is my ownself and the things that I take on that prevents me from enjoying one of the greatest experiences in the world.
