Still, Small Voice

Last night I stayed with my cousin at my aunt and uncle's house, who were both out of town. 16-year-old Maggie and I caught up on my aunt and uncle's bed; then she went off to start her homework at 10pm, and I snuggled under the covers for sleeping.

Normally, in my basement apartment, I don't get to hear the sound of rain on the roof. Last night however, that rhythmic hum was what put me to sleep. This morning, likewise, the pounding of the rain was what pulled me out of dreams (incidentally, a very nice one about a hunky South-American man named Eduardo), and into waking.

It is so hard to get up when it is still dark, and the covers are heavy and warm, and you can hear the sound of driving rain against the windows.

Later that morning I got back under the covers, propped up against pillows, with a mug of hot coffee to pray.

As I ran through thanks and requests, I thought of the time. Was I going to be late? How do I get to school from here? What do I still need to do? What about [this person]? What about [this person]? What about my future, God? How long, God?

And suddenly, there it was--

Some people call this a storm.
I say, I'm preparing good things.

I paused. But Lord, I thought... Is so MUCH rain necessary? It's supposed to rain all week.

Sometimes that's what it takes.

(And then, after feeling anxious--)

Just listen to the sound of the rain.

So I listened to that darkling music; that rhythmic drumming; the rush of the gusting wind; the taps of branches against the window.

I thought to myself: enjoy THIS moment for what it offers.

Rest in me.

Moth #2

On the curtain she waited,
Scalloped wings spread in
Apologetic space
Water hits the floor and
Steam rises
Dampening the dust on her wings.

On the floor, submissive
I find her again
A bow, a sweeping fan

And when waking, she is above me
Still-- still
A silent guardian
Garishly displayed against smooth white cotton.

Behind her, out the window
The world unfolds
Leaves ricochet, shocked to be shaken
Rain hums and wakes and washes them all
While I watch through a spider web landscape.

My dusty guardian is not so sinister perhaps;
But misunderstood.

Saturday Morning

I woke up to the rain this morning. I pulled the shade, and sleepily watched it pour down; form a river running down the alley; listened to it lighting on the leaves, softly drumming the roof with a larking, inconsistent song.

I burrowed under my covers and watched it stream down. Let that cool, morning, rain-light bathe my waking room through the window and guide my consciousness to rising.

There are few things more delightful than watching rain pour down outside, when one is inside, tucked under covers with a good book and a hot cup of coffee. I have nowhere I need to go this morning, and nothing pressing needs to be done.

Bliss.

Through the Storm

Last night was a really hard end to a really hard weekend. The big changes are brutally reshaping everything, and I wrote to Annie that, "for the rest of my life, I feel like I'm going to be walking on shattered glass."

This morning I woke up, and it was pouring down rain. I played guitar for a little while in my shadowy room, looking out at the heavy clouds, and the leaves being bent by the steady drops. I wanted to go out into it. I needed that storm on my skin; I don't know why. Maybe I felt that, if the outside felt like the inside, then the inside would hurt less. Maybe the idea of getting soaked in a rainstorm seemed cleansing. I don't really know.

But I put on a t-shirt and running pants, and flip flops and went out. There's a giant hill that leads straight up behind my house, and when you get to the top you can see the lake, and the other side of the city behind it, and the mountains behind that. My friend Aaron and I had watched a lightening storm from the top of that hill just last night. I usually start walks by heading up that hill; my legs like the wake-up call.

My hair was down. I just needed to be in the rain.

I got to the top of the hill and looked at the muddy bleary view; the lines of the city and lake and mountains had all run together. Sometimes getting to the top of the hill is enough, but I felt like I wanted to keep walking.

So I did, and my feet were wet because they were just in flip-flops, and dirt was getting caught between the soles of my feet and the sandals, and so I took them off. I took a few steps on the wet pavement in my bare feet, and that felt right. I don't know why. I stepped into a puddle and it felt soft. I stepped on the bumpy pavement and it hurt a little bit, but not like shattered glass. "This isn't as bad as it could be," I thought. And I kept walking.

I thought of me being in the storm, and how most people were in their homes, protected from the rain, or in their cars, protected from the rain, and it almost didn't seem fair to be in the wet and cold. But then I thought of some of the people I'd met in Africa, and I thought of some of the students I'd mentored that were going through really heavy things, and I remembered I wasn't the only one out in the rain.

I saw a woman with her dog, sitting under her porch roof, tucked back into a garden, and I almost went to talk to her, but then I thought that might have been even more strange than being out in the rain in the first place, walking in bare feet. I was sort of praying the whole time, and I remembered how I had thought that, part of God getting my back meant feeling His spirit curve around my spine and straightening me tall and helping me to walk with dignity, and so I straightened tall and lifted my chin and squared my shoulders and kept walking on that wet bumpy pavement in my bare feet. I had my shoes, and I knew I could put them on if my feet started hurting but I felt like God was nudging me. "You've got them if you need them, but I want you to know that you can do this."

So the walk turned into my own personal allegory, and I allowed myself to think about what the different moments coming in and out might mean. At times, I walked on the grass, and that was soft, and I thought that sometimes it will be easier, and it won't feel quite as stark or hard. I passed people every once in a while, and I thought that they probably thought I was a little strange, and I even thought of offering a couple times, "I think maybe I'm just a little weird," just to be helpful, but I didn't, I just let them think what they would think because people will SEE me walking through this, and I can try to be helpful, but really all I can be is me.

By the end of the walk, my feet were hurting, but I thought of Mary Ingles, who is one of my heroes, and who walked somewhere around 1,000 miles through the unsettled Ohio wilderness in the 1700's after she'd been taken from her home by an Indian raid. She walked in her bare feet, in early winter, with almost no food or clothes, and I thought, well SHE did it, and this walk through a Seattle neighborhood during a rainstorm in August wasn't nearly so hard as all that. And my feet weren't hurting badly enough to need my flip-flops yet, but I had them if I needed them, but, it was good to know that I was able to do it even without.

On the last bit, walking back down that big hill, I saw an apple tree and the apples were big, and probably almost ripe, and it was such a surprise, and it was something beautiful. Further along the road, there were summer roses dropping over their fence, and there were six perfect yellow ones, tinged with pink on the edges, fresh and lovely in the rain. They smelled beautiful. When I walked close to the fence to smell them, I stepped on a thick thatch of ivy that had crept over and along the sidewalk, and it was soft on my feet. Closer to my home, I saw a hedge of clematis, which is a vine that my mom has always had in our garden, and the flowers were bright pink six-pointed stars, open to the sky. I thought of how there will be lovely mercies at the end, even as my feet my hurt the most, that there will be cushioning moments and dear merciful gifts to make it easier.

I thought of how I'd begun the walk knowing that there would be rain, but walking in those cushioned shoes, and I thought that that's how I'd sort of begun this whole hard bit: knowing that it would be hard, but maybe walking on a cushion of hope that wasn't totally realistic. And this weekend was sort of like the shoes coming off, and it was really brutal, but there I was at the end of the walk in my bare feet, and I'd been able to get through it and there had been soft spots even along the way.

And I got home, and I was soaking wet, but the storm had woken my skin, and there was a freshness to it, and I opened the door to my house and I knew that it would be warm and dry and carpeted, and I thought, "Well we are going home, and that will be something entirely different from walking through a storm."

It is very difficult to feel hopeful at times. But I am trying. I'm trying to be in this, and acknowledge this, and to trust that there is a Rescuer, and to keep walking forward. Even when it's in the rain, even when it's just in my bare feet.

I'm not sure what else there is to do.

Impressions of Cette Fille on Sunny vs. Rainy Days (respectively)

Told through animal friends.

Sunny:


Rainy:


Sunny:


Rainy:


Sunny:


Rainy:


Sunny:


Rainy:



Is anyone else desperately ready for warm weather to ARRIVE?