The trill song of a bird rises above the gentle patter of the rain. It is a subdued wake up song. A rooster crows in the distance, barely heard over the sound of the drops echoing through the forest. The steady pouring of water pounds on the ground and the bushes. The smell of the rain fills the air. It is somewhere between rich damp dirt and freshly cut grass. A clean smell, which is funny because I don’t usually associate dirt with clean, but the power of a downpour is transformative.
The herbs in my porch garden are standing at attention. Their leaves are out soaking in every drop. The flowers in my yard are doubled over with the weight of their blossoms. Rain brings life. Without the water everything would shrivel up and die, but with it, the greens shine and shimmer. The pine straw and leaves which cover the ground look freshly painted in their deep brown hues. The trunks of the trees show all the nooks and crannies of the bark, in 3D. There is texture in the rain that brings depth. The artist knows it and uses the paint like a master.
The air is thick, and if you could see it, it would be a blanket covering everything within my view. As it is, I can feel it swaddle me. I am glad for the coolness of it, otherwise it would be like an electric blanket and I would not be able to sit on my porch to take in the soft storm. I am nestled in a cocoon which kisses my cheeks while I take in the creation.
At the moment the birds are quietly singing, as if they are back up for the rain. They sing in complement to the drops falling. A woodpecker adds some percussion. There is a rhythm in the rain. Not a beat really, but more of a breathing pattern. The cadence is subtle. No thunder today. No driving winds. No crescendo. Just a steady tempo which echoes through the trees. A pulse…of life.
My morning was planned, but now it is on hold while I take in the pitter patter, the hiss, and the drip, drip, drip. Each sound creates the song that goes with the painting in which I am currently sitting. It is an immersive experience. One where I close my eyes and listen, then open them again to see. I breathe deep and the scents carry me to a place where the pressure of a schedule fades away. Worship takes its place.
I am as small as one drop falling from a cloud, sliding down a leaf to find a puddle of other drops on the ground. I am glad to be a part of the puddle. Seeing the beauty of all the drops as they fall. Hearing their collective song. Feeling the embrace of God. Knowing he is surrounding me, with his liquid prayers. I do so love the way he speaks to me through a good rainstorm.