I’ve always loved to sit outside in the rain.
The torrential torrent or the tickle of a trickle,
It’s all the same to me.
Cleansing, refreshing, soothing;
Like a portable font to baptize the world,
God watches all.
Last night we had our first storm of the year
Lightening flashing, clouds crashing;
Our house was locked up for the night,
But I was pulled outside.
I stepped outdoors and lifted my face,
The heavens opened and blessed me
With a steady stream of tears…
Crying for Manchester, England.
I closed my eyes and my tears mingled with Gods’,
I sent my prayers wrapped around the pieces of my fractured heart,
Thinking of the parents whose child had been lost,
The child whose parent had been lost;
The City whose faith was ricocheting in the wind,
Of the helpers, (‘Always focus on the helpers!’) who opened their doors and their hearts’ to the lost and the lame.
Crickets sang, and the sky danced in time with them,
Rain bounced off the floor and poured through gutters.
The distant hum of traffic that I tuned in and then out,
But mostly the sound of nature: pure beautiful, raw nature,
I wanted to sit and wash away the sins of the world,
Standing in the peaceful yard, of my comfortable home, four thousand miles from Manchester.
The downpour eventually ceased and the night sky darkened once more,
I stepped back over my threshold and closed the door – my buffer against the world-
And carried my weary heart upstairs to bed,
There a T.V set blasted news into my room; about casualties, terrorists, and pain.
My wounded heart accepting that there is no escape from the hurt that is life-
only brief interludes of diluted peace;
Just fleeting moments where we can appreciate the beauty of the rain and ignore the clashing of the clouds before wondering once more,
Whose turn will it be next to sit in the eye of the storm.