raining.

   Rain is nice that one, dreary afternoon. It is an excuse to curl up with a cup of tea and read F. Scott Fitzgerald's short stories until it is time to get ready for dinner. And it is a nice thing to go to sleep listening to raindrops gently thud against the windows. But waking up to the rain is not pleasant. Nor is driving in the rain. After three days of rain, a body is bound to be driven to insanity or the dark pits of depression. It would be so nice to go outside without the danger of drowning in puddles.

  But then there is the miracle of rain. Water is falling out of the sky. Has it happened so many times I have ceased to be thrilled by the wonder of it? Have I come to a state where I think I am too old and sophisticated to go and lose myself outside in the mud and water? And rain is not just water. It is a thousand crystals falling from the sky, shattering on the ground, forming sheets of liquid glass. It is a healing ointment, a cleansing baptism for the face of the earth. And when the rain is over and the star that earth orbits peeks through the clouds, God's bow rests somewhere in the sky, a promise that He will never destroy the earth with water again.