Desert thunderstorms are some of the most vivid
memories I have as a child. The
suddenness and ferocity of the rain beating down on the arid Sonoran landscape. The warnings of flash floods and long-dry
arroyos becoming raging torrents. The
lightning you could see for miles and the sulphur smell of ozone in the
air.
As we would run to get in our car or inside our safe,
warm house, I was drawn to, mesmerized by this primal, violent force of
nature.
No rainstorm I had seen in my old suburban home could compare to the ones in this new strange place where we now lived.
It was like we had moved to another planet, one with completely different weather patterns and landscape and plants and even people. Experiencing a desert thunderstorm used all of my senses. I was a part of it, not just an observer. It was big, and real, and a gift from God and made me feel like I was, too.
Sometimes I think about those storms. When I'm rushing around, moving from one task to another, trying to fit everything into the little cubby-holes I've allotted and something happens that throws everything off. When I can't get back to where I wanted to be and I'm so frustrated by my schedule and my plans.
I need something big, something that grabs my attention and makes me look up.
Not just a gentle rain--a big, beautiful thunderstorm that shakes the earth with thunder and captures me as I feel and smell and taste something so much bigger than myself. This gift from the skies grounds me--takes me out of my own head long enough to see the world around me. How many other gifts do I not see because they're not dramatic enough to get my attention? How many times do I just get wet, without feeling the rain?
No rainstorm I had seen in my old suburban home could compare to the ones in this new strange place where we now lived.
It was like we had moved to another planet, one with completely different weather patterns and landscape and plants and even people. Experiencing a desert thunderstorm used all of my senses. I was a part of it, not just an observer. It was big, and real, and a gift from God and made me feel like I was, too.
Sometimes I think about those storms. When I'm rushing around, moving from one task to another, trying to fit everything into the little cubby-holes I've allotted and something happens that throws everything off. When I can't get back to where I wanted to be and I'm so frustrated by my schedule and my plans.
I need something big, something that grabs my attention and makes me look up.
Not just a gentle rain--a big, beautiful thunderstorm that shakes the earth with thunder and captures me as I feel and smell and taste something so much bigger than myself. This gift from the skies grounds me--takes me out of my own head long enough to see the world around me. How many other gifts do I not see because they're not dramatic enough to get my attention? How many times do I just get wet, without feeling the rain?
I still sleep better with the sound of a rainstorm. Not just a gentle rain, but a desert
thunderstorm. And as I drift off to
sleep I dream of the wide open spaces, the lightning striking the mountains in
the distance and the dry ground soaking up the water as it surrounds me, covers
me, and washes away my little worries, replacing them with dreams of something big and fierce and wild. One day I hope those dreams will capture my days, as well as my nights.
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