I remember a time in my childhood when a particularly violent thunderstorm unleashed the full force of its fury on our house…howling wind, beating rain, crashing thunder, the works. All alone in my upstairs corner bedroom I lay sobbing in my bed, fully convinced that my family had escaped to the safety of our basement and forgotten me.
My mom eventually heard my wails and came to reassure me that we most likely would not be swept away in the torrential chaos.
I’m still afraid of storms, but there’s a certain dignity in being a full-grown woman which prohibits me from huddling in a corner, hugging my knees, and crying for my mommy. No, I must be brave. I must be strong.
Well, we had a thunderstorm this afternoon (the loud kind). As you can imagine, I was feeling rather unsettled. I decided to sit down and play the piano for a while. It was so nice and peaceful; my girls played quietly at my feet, music floated through the air, droplets of rain glistened as they fell from the curtains…
Wait a minute.
I turned around only to realize that while I had been playing, rain had been pouring in through the windows, drenching everything in sight. I leapt from the piano bench and darted from room to room. Don’t worry though, only all the windows had been open and the rain had only been driving in at a horizontal slant.
Those of you who love a good thunderstorm may feel free to refrain from commenting unless you promise to be entirely sympathetic.