Rain

I used to hate the rain. That was when I drove my little silver Saturn with the moonroof from hell. Every time it rained, it was like a waterfall flowing through the leak and gushing all over the driver’s seat and the rear seat. If I saw clouds in the sky, I dreaded it and would say quick prayers to God that he wouldn’t do that to me. I would call home en route and say, “Please open the garage, I need to park in it!” My car would stink of mildew for days until the moisture had dried up.

But now it’s as if those years have washed away with the very rain that I dreaded. My new car doesn’t leak, so I’m now fully able to enjoy what Mother Nature brings.

In Texas, you can smell the rain before it arrives. The heavy moisture hangs in the air, thickens it, and spreads its dew along the grass and the trees. And then the rain comes. Huge gushes of it. And the ground is so dry, rivers flow, lakes form over roads, and the occasional idiot is stranded with a drowned car because he tried to drive over it.

On days like this, I like to stay in and watch Mother Nature as she reminds us that we’re merely humans. Uncapable of the majesty, the sheer force, that she can exert to make her point.

And then I look at my son. Every detail perfect, down to the last fingertip. Majestic.

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