It’s no secret that I am a storm lover. So much so, that the sound machine I sleep to is a thunderstorm. However, when the storm outside is louder than the storm in my room, I take notice. Mainly, because our house burned during a thunderstorm in 2009. The lightning strike that caused the fire and the clap of thunder collided that evening so loudly the pictures on the walls shook.

When smoke filled the air, we fled barefooted, out of the house and into the storm. No raincoats. No gear. Standing in the edge of the garage with dogs on leashes, in the rain watching the firemen rush in with their hoses and tools. They kicked us out of the garage so they could work and we wouldn’t blow up if the cars caught fire. Our neighbors came to the rescue with bottles of water, umbrellas, and a ride to their house where we spent some hours with our insurance guy and, periodically, with the fire chief on the phone giving us updates.

My love of storms turned into a fear of storms for a season of time. I jumped at every clap of thunder that sounded close. I felt anxiety rise up. It didn’t help when a tree fell on our house and took out the back deck in the middle of a storm. I mean, really, who wouldn’t have a fear of storms after that? It sounded like a bomb went off. However, I must say the fear didn’t last too long. I guess my love of storms outweighed my two run-ins with them.

As I sit in my writing chair in this moment, the rain is pouring down. I can hear it and it is soothing to my soul, despite the tornado watch. It hisses and sizzles on the leaves. It splatters on the ground and into the puddles. It runs down the roof and creates waterfalls off the porch. Plunk. Boom. Splat. Hiss. Crash. Crack. It’s a storm of onomatopoeias. The wind blows them all around just outside my window. I don’t feel fear anymore at storms, even when they are raging around me. I do however, have a sense of unease. Not even anxiety, but more of a respect to pay attention. I am no longer as casually familiar with the storms. I sit up. I listen. I want to be aware.

 I realize I have no control in a storm. How hard or soft the rain falls. How loud the thunder is. When or where the lightning will strike. I do not know if the wind will blow items away, or if it will blow trees to me. Recognizing something I love so much, could cause extensive damage is risky. But, there is still this untamed beauty in a storm that mesmerizes me.

And the air afterwards is so crisp and clean, as if the storm filters out all the pollen and pollution and allows me to simply breathe again. To sit in the cool of the next morning and listen to the birds’ celebration. They made it through the storm. They are thrilled about that. The leaves in the trees are gently waving good morning. Everything seems somehow settled.  

Storms in life come and go. Everyone has their own storms to walk through. No one is exempt from them, but there is beauty in the storms. They have a way of bringing clarity of what is important. They magnify the preciousness of life. They remove the things that cloud our minds. They give us breathing room. A chance to make changes for the better.

I will always love thunderstorms…but maybe not life storms. I have weathered a few. I wouldn’t choose them for myself. Yet, looking back, I do recognize the beauty of perspective they have brought me. Being out of control is not a pleasant feeling, but I have been through enough wind and rain to know, the storm always passes eventually. Then the rebuilding starts in the clear fresh air of the morning. Removing debris. Picking up the pieces. Starting again. Old things are passed away and all things…are new.