After having lived in a neighborhood that looks more like a field of hay than the lush suburban lawns I'm used to, I found myself breaking into a little jig at the sound of rain on my rooftop last night. Since we haven't had more than an inch or two of rain all summer, I think I can be forgiven for reacting in a lame, old Hollywood western settler kind of way. Besides, I don't think anyone saw me.
I've always been a sucker for a good thunderstorm; it didn't take a drought to make me appreciate rain. I've always loved the feel of a sun-shower's cool raindrops on sweaty skin; the persistent clatter on the skylight as the sheets of water fall off the roof; jumping puddles in strappy sandals. I could live without the worms that dot the driveway after a downpour but everything else about the skies opening up puts a smile on my face (as long as it doesn't wash away an outdoor party I've been planning for weeks).
What I love more than anything about a good old-fashioned thunderstorm is the feeling of gratitude that washes over me every time I experience one. There's nothing better than huddling under the covers, listening to the peals of thunder, knowing that I'm safely tucked inside my house. There's nothing sweeter than seeing lightning split the dark sky, knowing that I'm lucky enough to have shelter. Tucked inside the confines of my home, I can appreciate all of God's glory and all of nature's power as I drift off to sleep.
What could be better than that?
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