The grumbling rolling low thunder reverberates through the whole house as I snuggle into my covers. I just want to lay in bed and listen (or sleep) to the storm. As a child, I remember being afraid of storms. One of my early memories is of my sister Teri crawling into bed with me and comforting me during a storm. She told me that the thunder was just the angels bowling.
I don’t know if it was her assurances or the soothing nature of the storms but since then I’ve loved storms. When a storm rolls through I love to watch the clouds, dance and race across the sky. I love to feel the thunder rumble through the very core of me. I love the surprise and beauty of the moment of lightning. It is so symbolic that lightning is so beautiful and so quick to pass. That is somewhat like beauty in life. Our looks really only last a short time.
Storms are tumultuous, unpredictable, and fierce. Yet whenever we have one, I feel a sense of calm and balance. My poor aching joints don’t like them but my spirit seems to be able to ride storms like a well-trained horse. The storms rage around me and others scurry for cover. I stand and watch.
The storms seem to engage all my senses. The smell of a summer storm is different from that of an autumn storm. Spring storms bring a cleansing and newness with them. While winter storms are often crisp and clear.
There is even a different taste to the storms. Stick out your tongue to catch a snowflake. It tastes different than the raindrop of a summer thunderstorm.
People often grumble about the gray days. I find them to match life. There are times we are sunny and bright and there are times we are gray. We need both and hopefully find a balance in all of it.