When a single small blessing falls from the heavens, we call it a miracle and pray for more. When a billion small blessings fall from the heavens, we call it rain, and wish it away.
I was awakened at five o'clock this morning by the sound of rain. I thought of my car. When I parked it in front of the house a scant three hours earlier, I left the windows cracked. I smiled, turned over, and returned to a peaceful sleep. There was nothing in the car that wouldn't survive a shower or bath. I've driven with a wet butt before and lived to tell the tale.
Last night, a friend sent me a text message telling of an art project she is undertaking. She is decorating the fence that encloses her small back yard. About 7:30 this morning, I took a walk to check it out. She only lives a block away. The rain was still coming down. Hard. I dressed in pants and an undershirt, with no thought for the weather. I left my head uncovered. It was my intention to get soaked to the bone. I succeeded.
During my walk, a recalled a similar walk many years ago. Kat and the kids were out of town, leaving me alone. It was late summer. It was a warm steady rain, at sundown, following a thunderstorm. Wearing shorts and sandals, I walked to the parking lot of a local restaurant (now The Discovery Academy). Standing near one of the storm drains, a felt the warm water washing over my feet. It was like baptism. Would you rather have your sins washed away by the chlorinated waters of the duly registered 503C tax exempt corporate entity, or by the warm waters of the summer rain that are also carrying the sins collected on the asphalt, in the guise of dirt, dust and oil? I presently walked back home, into the back yard. I spent a while laying on the trampoline, in the dark, nude, wishing the rain would never end.
Walking back home this morning, I passed Kat's place. I saw something under my daughter's car. Trash? Pieces of the car falling off? Wait - this is a Camry. God drives a Camry, and pieces don't fall from God's own car. What I saw was birds hiding from the rain. They were waiting for the weather to clear so they can pillage cherries from the tree in the front yard.
As I climbed the steps to my house, I remembered scenes from a few movies where rain played such a role. A scene from The Crow - "It won't rain forever." Purple Rain by the artist formerly (and once again) known as Prince.
I have bathed myself in the billions of small blessings fallen from heaven, and I am renewed. I am reborn.
I spoke above of leaving my head uncovered. About six months ago, a stopped cutting my hair. Two months ago I started covering my head. These two things are connected. It is a spiritual thing. I only uncover my head for a few things: sleep, personal ritual, making love. This walk in the rain was personal ritual.