Singing in the Rain

It doesn't really rain in Colorado.  That was one of the first differences I noticed about Iowa when I moved here.  Even when it does rain, there is a lot more space between the drops, and the rain rarely lasts longer than 30 minutes.  My husband still laughs at me because I did not bring my raincoat when the weather forecast called for a thunderstorm. In Colorado, "thunderstorm" means clouds, thunder and lightning, not rain.  "Cloudburst," "flash flood," and "sprinkling" mean "rain likely."  Apparently, In Iowa,  "thunderstorm" means "if you forget your raincoat, it will be a lot like taking a shower with your clothe on."

This walk was a wet walk.  There was a steady rain falling which was gentle and actually rather warm for the last part of February.  We walked the neighborhood between S. Pennsylvania and Massachusetts from 6th St. SE to 9th St. SE.  Things we noticed: many houses have swing sets in their yards; there were few dogs out; there were no other people out; the sidewalks were in terrible condition; there are quite a few local businesses tucked into this neighborhood; a couple of police vehicles parked in driveways suggested that police officers live here.

The neighborhood felt cohesive: held together in some way.  No particular prayers suggested themselves to me, except the simple prayer to lean into and enjoy the day.  Rain is invigorating. Rain is miraculous.  Splashing through puddles reminds us to let our socks and shoes get wet sometimes.  Forgetting the towel reminds us we never used to mind when the muddy dog left tracks all over the upholstery.  Being out in weather feels a little bit like breaking the rules: it isn't a cautious, sensible, or even productive thing to do.  Nevertheless, there is nothing quite like water from the sky, mud from the earth and a fresh wind in the face to remind us that the world is real, and that maybe, sometimes, we ought to go out into it and splash around a little.

 


View 1st Lent in a larger map