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

I’m going to get wet, perhaps very wet. In that split second my irritation morphs into acceptance: everything changes.

Around my fish-boots, rain polka-dots the sidewalk, then splatters into rivulets coursing along the curb toward the sewer. I relax into the wetness; its tentacles envelop me within their chill. I begin to laugh as I shelter beneath maples and oaks and catch my breath. It’s been awhile since I was drenched.

Then out into the open, the last stretch of my walk, and home. My scalp tingles, my chin drips, my shirt clings to my back, my pants etched with wavy designs—a waterlogged human. My laughter feels like orange sherbet.

“Some people feel the rain. Others just get wet.” So said the gifted country singer and song writer, Roger Dean Miller.

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

 

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