Morning Rain

 I love rainy mornings. There’s something soothing about waking up to the sound of rain on the roof. It slows you down. You see that it’s a rainy day and you think, what’s the rush? You walk downstairs and stand at the back door watching it fall on the deck. The grass is greener. The trees are darker, their leaves slick and glossy. You make your coffee then stand at the window drinking it. It tastes better this morning. You think of that old Bible verse about how the rain falls on the just and unjust alike and you’re glad it works that way. Even Lucy notices. She pauses at the top of the deck steps, lifts her nose high in the air and breathes deeply, in no particular hurry, just like me.

It occurs to me that I had nothing to do with the rainfall’s arrival and I will have no say on when it stops. This is out of my hands. More powerful forces are at play here. Human beings might take credit for a great many things, but we don’t conjure rain from the skies. And yet, if it suddenly stopped falling every single great civilizational advance made in the last 4000 years would turn to dust.

So when I wake up to the sound of raindrops on my roof I am thankful for the life-giving provision it brings. I’m grateful that it falls on me whether I’ve been good or bad.

I let Lucy back in. She knows the drill. She walks around in circles on the towel I have placed on the floor at the back door to dry her feet. There is a brightness in her eyes. She knows that rain is a good thing somehow. For her it means that Mom and Dad will be calmer today, less hurried. It will be a good day.