When it rains here I think of Nebraska. I think of the farmers and the rain gauges being checked by Sandy and Gloria and so many others. I think of the timing and if it’s good or if it’s too late for the corn in the fields getting closer to harvest and how dry it should be.
When it rains here I think of California, my dad and the weather and how much they need rain.
This rain seems to just fall from the sky in abundance, no sprinklers or pivots because the sky lets it fall. Lake Mead and the Colorado and all those thirsty places would dance to see this kind of rain falling down.
The wind isn’t a factor, the limbs keep being branches, nothing scatters or breaks or gets swept off in the storm. At least it hasn’t since we’ve been here and that’s already been a month of Sundays where the rains came and we watched the earth lap it up and turn green.
Green is a given, growth must come easy, moisture that others pray would bless them as well. I heard it fall lightly, then some time after midnight it really started coming and then it rained some more.
The kids missed their school bus, the sun broke through briefly, a family of deer stood at the treeline and stared. I started a new job, the only reason to go shopping is for uniform pieces and socks for the boys.
When it rains, it’s a blessing, when it goes quiet after drop off, when it’s a gift to see newness spring up like a bloom you didn’t notice was growing, you never spotted in the garden and then one day a flower emerges to behold.