About Rain

It's been raining pretty bad over the last few days, down here in South Texas. Nothing we haven't seen before, though — we're used to it. Nevertheless, I always see rain is a really annoying part of life. Walk to your car for lunch, you get soaked. The yard needs to be mowed, but it's pouring down. You need to do some house work outside, but the rain keeps you from it. You need milk or bread or something else from the store, but you'll have to walk 60 feet in a downpour (not to mention stepping in all the puddles). I could go on, and I'm sure many of you could add to my pithy list.

But, thankfully, every once in a while a moment reminds me that the cynic inside should become aware of his surroundings — and that's what happened yesterday. I don't know what it is, but these reminder moments always seem to occur when I stop to get the mail. Maybe there's something magical about the mailbox on our street, or the drainage outlet right below it? I don't know, but here's how this moment unfolded yesterday...

The rain was letting up just a bit — but it was coming down enough to get me fairly soaked if I got out of my truck. Since I was heading home for the day, and since there's always a chance I'll have something fun and Russian waiting for me, I pulled to the curb to get the mail. When I got out, I looked around, and everything had that deep green hue from a tired sky full of rain and an Earth soaked with it. Everything around me had a deeply saturated (no pun intended) look about it, and the colors were extraordinarily vibrant.

The smell of rain was everywhere, obviously; the rich, earthy scent that reminds you that you're standing on earth, soil, a lump of rock — and at the base of the scent is a faint hint of ozone from the charged sky and ground.

As I walked to the mail boxes, I had the sensation of my ears plugging-up because everything was stuffy and almost silent — except for the gentle sound of rain drops falling on the trees, the grass, the road, and me. It was like you hear in some movies when they drop most of the audio and single-out a certain sound — and all I was really aware of was the sound of rain falling.


My eyes were drawn to the gathered water and I watched the ripples quake the reflection of the sky, and then I did what most people do in these moments: I looked up. Mind you, I was looking at nothing in particular, I was really just turning my face upward to allow the rain to fall on it.

For some reason, there's just nothing like rain gently falling on your face from haggard clouds that are worn out from pouring rain on the earth all day. There was a calm. There was a silence. There was a resonate feeling of life and purpose around — yet removed enough to be just beyond the grasp of full understanding — that tweaked the flame of awe inside. For a moment there was nothing but Nature, a reminder of how little we are, and a blatant knowledge that there is a Creator that spun this world into existence, maybe because He, too, likes the idea of rain falling on His face. He, too, likes the way a day full of rain awakens the deep green of Nature. He, too, likes a silence in which you can only hear His creation whispering.

After a few moments of this, the rain began to strengthen, so I got my mail (it was only a Pottery Barn catalog) and got back into my truck. It was then that He spoke to me and said, simply:

"I made that moment for you."

It's funny how He does things like that. It's funny how our soul knows we need a reminder, and it cries out to Him when we don't ourselves — and it's awesome that He takes time to respond. I needed that moment yesterday, whether I knew it or not, and God moved to make it happen. For a few seconds, time and life stood still for little ol' me as He raised His hand to signal His creation to speak — to speak to me.

This is why we worship Him. This is why we tell others of Him. He is a personal God, and He loves us all — and He wants us all to know and love Him.