Ten minutes from home. Roiling clouds obscure the afternoon sun. A breeze from the south assuages the nape of my neck, sticky with perspiration. Mist befogs my glasses, moistens my cheeks.

In a split second irritation is transmuted into acceptance.

At my feet, rain polka-dots the sidewalk, then bleeds them together. My crocs splash between sheltering trees offering brief respite: the maple, the sycamore, the oak. Then out into the open, the last stretch of my walk. My scalp tingles, my chin drips, my shoulders breathe, my shirt clings to my back. I laugh.

Later, I’m reminded of the saying of singer-song writer, Roger Miller: “Some people feel the rain. Others just get wet.”

Is this not also how grace works in our psyches? Always proffered, but sometimes obscured through distractions?