THE SON REIGNS
I study the clouds as they roll and tumble across the sky and shiver in the blustery wind. I gaze at their dim reflections in the small pond. Birds soar up above and complain in the small cluster of trees west of the pond. I'd like to sqawk myself, or at least shift to their perspective. I'd like to scramble higher to catch a glimpse of the big picture as well. If I had wings, I could climb as high as the clouds.
These are the same clouds my ancestors studied to predict weather conditions as they cultivated their land and tended their animals. Did they find their answers in these clouds? Did they find purpose and meaning in these dancing patterns? Did the clouds pour when it was needed and reveal the sky when sun was needed? Not always. Clouds were as unpredictable as life. My ancestors didn't often find answers they wanted when looking up, but they learned to accept whatever rained down.
Today the skies are their usual dull, slate gray, reflecting some grayness of my soul. Answers I seek from up above are not raining, or ever dripping. Instead, circumstances that I don't want pelt down, stinging my eyes and bluring my vision. Like Noah, I am safe and protected in my boat, but I need to wait for the waters to recede before emerging onto dry land. Like Noah, I long for the sun to break through and truth to shine.
Rain quenches dry land and sustains life. Without it, I would not be mindful to cherish the sun. Let the rain drip, pitter patter and splash. Let the thunder roar. Someone, somewhere is grateful. Someone is receiving answers. We are not ignored.
The same Hand of Providence who sustained my ancestors a century ago continues in me. They knew knew that when the sun smiled through their teardrops, a rainbow would appear. Just as they learned to immerse themselves in the goodness of those promises, I too, must learn to get a little wet.