As I lie here, I am pondering what to write about today. Books? I wonder. Food? Maybe. Perhaps a list of some sort? No, there have been a lot of lists on the blog lately. The book of Daniel (where I'm at in my devotions)? I don't know.
Nothing is really coming, and then the sound of the pounding rain begins to drown out my thoughts. It sounds like a pulsing river, periodically picking up in speed and intensity, then softening to a quiet stream.
And now I stop and think, "Why not write about the rain?" But what about the rain? Is there a theological metaphor in there? Some witty anecdote it might lead to? Is it going to turn into one of my classic "I'm-so-grateful-for-something-seemingly-insignificant" posts?
No, I think. Jaquelle, why not just write about the rain? No dramatic spiritual application. Just the fact that it's raining. We've had a dry summer here, swinging between blistering heat and muggy humidity. The last few weeks have sparked serious forest fires across the province. We needed this rain, this fast and rushing rain.
There is something deeply cleansing about heavy rain. It's washing the cars in the driveway and the dirty pavement on the street. It's nourishing our grass and garden. It's reviving and sustaining life. Rain feels so clean, like it's rubbing away grime and filth and dirt and shame and ugly and smoothing it over with freshness and newness and shine.
It's bright outside. The grey sky is so pale it's almost white, and the clouds are thick and light. I almost don't need the light in my room on now. It's a summer rain.
There's leftover squash soup and homemade bread for lunch. I'm glad. Rain and soup just seem to go together, hand in hand, like peanut butter and jelly.
I am grateful for this rain. I am happy to see this rain. I have spent almost half an hour reflecting on this rain.
And that's pretty much the point of this post: it's raining right now.