I think rain is annoying.
This is probably because rain is basically an electric shot to my hair, and c’mon, I’m a girl. I spend time finagling my hair and I whisper sweet nothings to the curls and I bribe it and I walk outside and I’m all, “Nobody told me it was raining!” But lately, the rain has been singing me a different tune along the lines of, “Who cares about your hair?”
“For He says to the snow, ‘Fall on the earth’; likewise He speaks to the showers and to the downpour of His mighty rains.” —Job 37:6
This weekend, I got caught in the rain (more than once.) I’d jumped in the car and gone to the lake, which is the land of sun, no? I tagged along with JaCo to see The Amazing Spider-Man (which was truly amazing. As you could probably deduce, I’m not much of a comic book enthusiast, but I fell in love with Spider-Man and came home to research him up. Googling Spider-Man is probably really much more gratifying results-wise than Googling other crushes who are less, say, famous. Not that I do that, of course. Purely hypothetical.)
Anyway, we came out of the theater to falling felines and canines and lightning that was 4th-of-July worthy. We looked at each other. We looked out at the parking lot, where our cars were a mere 49.5 miles away. We looked at each other again. “I’ll go,” Coston said. “No! We can make a run for it!” It was the sort of rain that absorbed you, that you couldn’t fight against anyway. We looked back out and thought about the 35-minute drive home.
“Do you want my umbrella?” It was a girl who was smiling, kind of like we wanted to do about the whole predicament, except we were thinking about getting wet. She had an umbrella. “No! We’re going to run for it.” We looked out at the rain. We looked at her lavender umbrella. It was very pretty.
“No, seriously, my ride is picking me up. You guys should take it.” The girl. The parking lot. The rain.
“thank you so much! We’ll bring it back to you!”
“No, keep it. And have a good night.” She was still smiling. The rain.
We got wet anyway. We were three normal-sized people, smushed together under one purple normal-sized umbrella. It was midnight, and it was raining. But we were smiling. Coston drove me to my car in the corner of the parking lot; it happened to be standing in the middle of a river. The rain. We went to take the umbrella back; there was a new cluster of anxious faces gazing out at the parking lot, but no blonde-haired umbrella owner. So Coston handed it off to a couple whose car was probably parked 68.3 miles away. They huddled under as they rushed out into the rain, and I knew they were getting wet. But they were smiling. The rain does that to you.
Later, we stood in the rain as we searched for keys we didn’t have to get into a locked house. We banged and when Katie eventually came to the door and saw us, dripping with 1 am. raindrops and smiling, she had to smile, too. And the next morning, when we saw the rain on the lake, we looked at each other and grinned. “Isn’t that beautiful? We needed the rain.”
Today, I heard a message about serving. I listened as our speaker talked about “the one”—the one with whom God’s heart is consumed, the sheep he’s after. I listened as the speaker told me what I know: “You are the hands and feet and hugs of Jesus. You hand out the umbrellas.”
And then I figured it out: Rain isn’t convenient. It’s the shower you can’t step out of, and I like to be in charge of my own bathing. It ruins hair and satin, and it can be dangerous. But it’s in the rain that we get our umbrellas. And it’s in the rain that we pass them on. And in the midst of umbrella-sized love, who cares what your hair looks like?
And I bet you saw this coming, but I’m here to remind you again: The sun comes out again, and we kiss the sky.