English Rain

Looking back over the duration of my trip to the West Bank in Palestine this summer, I can distinctly remember the day I first saw clouds—if the transparent wisps of white in the air can be called real clouds. I asked probably half a dozen people that day if they saw the clouds. Those bits of gathered moisture droplets were a phenomenon in that dry land.

I thought the white puffs spectacular. You see, as I spent daily time in the sun—glorious and warm and bright though it was—I couldn’t help but long for the rain. There is something about rain that makes green leaves greener, light reflections shimmer more keenly, and the colors of the life on the ground pop brilliantly in contrast to a grey, rain-laden sky.

The morning after I arrived in England after spending a month in that dry land I woke up and the gentle sound of rain on the window caressed my ears. Opening my eyes I tilted my head to see the water in tiny streams falling down the pane. A joyful awakening—rain!

It rained through the day as I walked into the airport to fly hour upon hour. It rained as I gaily walked back out of the airport because of overbooked flights—happy to prolong my stay in England. It rained as my youthful host took me to a pub near Windsor Castle to play a game of cards over some lunch. It rained as we walked down the cobblestone streets past an old accordion player and preoccupied, umbrella-clad shoppers.

The gracious hosts apologized over again for the rain. “It would have to rain for you on your first day in London, wouldn’t it? Sorry about that.” Katie said in her proverbial British accent.
The rain dramatizes not only the colors of the world: yes, greens are greener and blacks, blacker, but also lovely moments are lovelier. “I don’t mind,” I replied with a smile.

When it rains it pours

Rain has got to be on of my most favorite things in the world. To sit in a warm place and listen to the sound of it and smell it and to watch it is one of the most relaxing comforting things for me. I can remember loving rainy days from a very young age, sitting in an open garage or breeze way bundled up in blankets reading and watching the rain or dancing carefree in a downpour, jumping in the drainage ditches and puddles.

 

One of my fondest memories is the great Creation flood of 1989. There we were camping, going to concerts, building stick houses in the woods, covered in dirt and running about dressed like hooligans (because mom was nowhere in sight) when it was sighted in the distance, the giant looming black clouds closing in on Agape Valley. It drew closer and closer and then it began to rain, not that hard at first but it picked up quickly and showed no signs of slowing down. Before we knew it puddles turned into small streams, which grew and grew until we were wading in it. Initially we crowed in the giant striped tent to stay dry until at some point we gave up that idea and joined the masses trying to save the washed away tents and belongings. From there on it is a blur of mud and water. We of course put on our swimsuits and frolicked about, loving every minute of being allowed to play in the mud and swim, oh yes you heard me, SWIM! I distinctly remember a canoe, I wouldn’t put money on it but I swear it happened. What fun we had that year as kids carefree in the pouring rain, followed by days of mud, we couldn’t ask for anything more.

 

It seems however as I grow older and have less time to sit and enjoy the rain, it has become more of an inconvenience. To be met by rain on an early work day as I rush out the door means wet hair, clothes and bags as well as slow traffic, because no one in Ohio can drive unless its sunny and seventy outside. Not to mention camping in the rain as an adult, not quite as much fun as being a carefree kid. It never fails, even the best “waterproof” tents still leak in the lightest rain. And I can’t tell you the last time I was able to just sit and enjoy a rainy day with a book and a warm drink. In spite of my new feelings towards rain, given a rainy day not filled with obligations I would still love to spend it just enjoying the sight, sound and smell of the it. 

Strip Tease

Becca has said many times "Rain intensifies emotions." I agree! When your super stoked about something you just wanna go dance in the rain. When your feeling really sad staring out a window and watching rain drops pelt the glass is exactly what you want to do. Have you ever noticed that romantic scenes in movies getting 100x mushier in the rain. It would not be very romantic if a couple stood on a random street outside of a random store and kissed. It would how ever be very sappy if they embraced in the pouring down rain, disregarding any umbrellas, coats or brief cases.

I have learned through experience that rain will intensify any emotion. Including humiliation:

"Go Em! GO!" I hear mom yell from the side lines. Its the beginning of the third half. Who decided that was fair! Just because they have two teams and we have one does not make it ok for us to play two games! Ger. This girl keeps elbowing me. Come on ref lets just start the half already! Blow the whistle! Man I can not see! There should be goggles with mesh so rain doesn't puddle up in them like now.

TWWWEEEETTT!

My feet jump off the line into action. I sprint twenty feet. They won the ball, so I slow down. No sense in rushing around now, it's in the defenses hands. My legs are cold. Why a breeze? It's raining harder. I look down...No skirt. My mind goes blank. Why don't I have a skirt on? I spin around. There laying twenty feet back is my skirt, in the mud.

"You might want to put that on." snorts the girl defending me. I blush.

"No I usually play nude. It's cool." I stammer, trying to play it off. I rush back and awkwardly try to button my skirt back on. Oh no. Here comes the ball. I frantically try to button it but the rain is coming to hard and my mind is to frazzled. My eyes land on my coach.She is rolling with laughter on the side lines. It just now to me how public this little incident is. I bolt with my stick in one hand and my skirt in the other to the side lines yelling for
Ally to sub someone in for me.
"Nice strip tease Em!"
"You would!!"
I like those spandex there girl!"
I hear these remarks tossed back and forth. All I want is to get my skirt back on and get
back in the game so I can knock that girl down who made fun of me.
The day and the life of Emily Ewing.

Rain

Rain on the widow and rain on the door. I couldn't ask for anything more. 

United in the Rain

Mark and I sit hunched against the rain. We got to the lacrosse game early—before the rain started. As the first parents to find our spot in the bleachers, we watched as the girls stretched and passed. A few more fans gathered as a light sprinkle began. After a few minutes the drizzle became a gentle shower and then a downpour. Quickly umbrellas began to shoot up. Mark and I each hold an umbrella with canopies converging. We are squished shoulder to shoulder. One-by-one other spectators get up and leave for shelter—some back to cars, others to the snack stand. A few even trot up the bleachers to the announcer’s booth for refuge. Eventually, the game is postponed and the team tramps past us to crowd into the booth as well. As she passes, Emily’s says, “Hey, you guys can come up here, too, if you want.” We don’t. We’ve discussed it. Packed side-by-side with our umbrellas overlapping, blanket across our legs and collars turned up; we are pretty dry. If we give in and make a break for shelter—we would surely get drenched and then there would be no dry spot to return to. “No thank you. We will ride it out together.”


This is our credo. An unspoken, intensely felt plan of attack. Our Modus Operandi, if you will. Life is tough. Rough-and-tumble. Money is tight. Kids screw up. We screw up. If we don’t hunch together against it all, covered by God’s grace and mercy with the canopy of His love overlapping us; we will get drenched.


We had our own sequestered space in the rain for a while. We talked and laughed. We said we should get “extra credit” as parents for sitting in the rain to see a lacrosse match. Eventually the game resumed. Emily scored twice that day. This is the same field where several years ago Becca got MVP for her efforts in the goal. This, the same place others had deserted only minutes ago and came back to puddle seats or came back not at all. We endured unflinching, together to the end. Life changes. Rain starts. Rain stops. Together it’s all good.

Let it Rain

This might be stereotypical but rain is one of my all time favorite things.

I love everything about it.

The sight of the dark clouds looming in the distance foreshadowing the hours to follow. Even catching a glimpse of a wall of rain that is descending from under the cloud.

The smell of the damp musty air, pregnant with drops before the fall and the fresh, crisp smell afterward. Even the gross dirt smell that happens after a spring rain, when the worms come squiggling out of the earth reminding you to watch where you walk.

The feel of running/dancing/walking/standing in the rain with massive cold pellets drifting from the sky soaking your hair and making your clothes stick to your skin, washing away the day and all it's thoughts.

The sound of the light pitter-patter that clams and soothes and then accelerates into a massive crescendo of slamming drops pelting the windows and thunder shaking the house. Climaxing into a grand symphony of sound created by nature. Created by God.

The dim light that stretches across the sky giving a quiet haze to the day, only to be broken by a burst of lighting as the storm reaches it's peak and a soft rainbow as the finale.

Rain is one of those things that effects everyone.

All the busy, angry, rushed, people on the freeway slow down and spread apart.

Stay-at-home moms are frantically running through the house shutting windows.

Dogs and cats are hiding behind couches in fear.

People at the grocery store are standing in the entry waiting for the skys to clear so they can dash to the car.

Little children are barefoot running through the rain for pleasure. Turning their faces to the sky trying to catch the drops in their mouth. Watching as the drops fall slowly from the silent clouds above.

Me. I like to sit on a porch or in a garage. Watching. Feeling. Smelling. Seeing. And Hearing all that rain has to offer.

Spooning

First of all I must apologize for my lack of participation thus far. I must say anything on a computer frustrates me. If its not face book I need a guide. So now that mom has set me up it's time to write....

I used to take for granted that fact that we have a mother that will be our personal soothing alarm clock (equipped with a snooze button),  breakfast/lunch/dinner provider, free taxi driver and back scratcher extraordinaire. I still catch myself not being as grateful as I should be but I'm just realizing how blessed we really are. Most of my friends have to wake up to the shrill screaming of an alarm clock or to a parent running out the door shouting "You'd better not be late for school!" We have an exceptional mother who serves us in every way she can. 

I always loved getting my back scratched, my stomach scratched, my legs, feet, arm pits...pretty much anything scratched. It is still a blessing getting lulled into a pretend sleep (feel free to stop by any time mom, I'm free most nights.) I especially loved it when I happened to be sharing the experience with one of my sisters. It was usually Becca and I sprawled out in mom and dad's old bed. It was especially enjoyable because I knew that when mom snuck out of the room the night was not nearly over. I can not tell you how many nights Becca and I layed awake talking about anything and everything . Mostly laughing. After the last laughs died down our breathing deepened, eyes remained closed. This is when the real fun started. 

I am an aggressive sleeper. I have been told by many. I gradually awake from a restful sleep. Stretch, yawn, blink, then realize I'm on top of a very awake very confused first guest. 

"Oh I'm so sorry! Did I keep you awake long!?"

"O no...only about four hours..."

That's how I weed out the fake friends. Invite 'em over and sleep with 'em. If they can handle the spooning, they can handle me. 

The Warmth of Her Song

The day was cold. I came from the pathways of my campus—all literally frozen or slushed over from the terrible Chicago weather—and the relentless wind brought fast, red color into my cheeks and nose. I entered Anderson Hall. This tall, rounded building was my first year place of residence at North Park—a surrogate home.

I stomped off the ice from my sturdy, beloved brown shoes that were certainly not thick enough to keep the cold out. Look up and smile, I tell myself so as not to forget the desk attendant who wanted to see my ID. Fumbling a bit, I retrieved the little plastic card needed for entry. Say hello. I shook both legs in a funny jig to fling the ice chunks off my pants and then trudged up the flight of stairs to my room, all the while awkwardly slipping on tiles with puddles of melted ice. Fishing into my coat pocket with fuzzy mittens, I retrieved the door keys, unlocked the door, entered and proceeded to strip off my soaking wet pants. They had accumulated icy water up to mid-shin. Much better. I was tired, college sometimes drains.

Time for a shower. I gathered the odds and ends needed, wrapped myself in a towel that almost fit around me twice, and plodded down the rounded hallway toward my niche of relief. Turning on the water and letting it pool on the floor I stepped in and started to feel my near-frostbitten toes again. The heat of the water flowed all around me, ebbing into the depths of my bodily cold.

My mind whirled incomprehensibly as I tried to piece together the good and the bad from my day. It’s just too cold to try. Every part felt engulfed in chill—even my thoughts and sometimes my spirit were wintered by all that is foreign and difficult. Wintered by a new college, by a first roommate, by a diverse campus, by a big city, by a lack of home. I let the hot water gushing from its spout return feeling in the numbness. Then suddenly out of my mouth came another source of warmth: the nightly melodies of my childhood. “Rain drops on roses and whiskers on kittens… when I’m feeling sad, I simply remember by favorite things…” The music and its words comforted my frustrated mind, body, and spirit.

In those moments I was not lacking home. In the songs sung by the mother who loves, I returned to the comfort of my bedroom at bedtime, dark and safe. The soothing, emanating presence of my mother’s songs flooded my heart. The tingling of blood rushing back in filled me with hope for real and available warmth.

Singing

I have always wished that I could sing. I think I am the only sister who somehow didn't get the Oney singing gene. So honestly I am not all that moved by singing. It seems that my entire life my mom and sisters took every opportunity to burst into song, pretty much any occasion called for a tune whether waking, falling asleep, riding in the car, cleaning, you name it, it was a good time for singing. I think it is my lack of talent that has kept me from ever totally enjoying the constant singing. I say all of that not because I never liked the "school days" tune or the nightly lullaby's but because I am having a hard time relating in any way to this weeks topic. I guess I wonder to myself as I write this... will I one day sing my children to sleep despite my inability?