Precipitation

It falls, and that is all it does. Anything that falls out of nowhere, as if off a cliff, out of a window, down from the sky — this is precipitation. And today, coming after the parching waves of sulfur dioxide and ash, the rain is a very welcome guest. This, this, it whispers, is the promise of love.

Do you remember what it was like to sit, not in a fine and private place, but in the open — on the bleachers, in the canteen, at the ceremonial staircase — and do nothing but talk to someone who was great company? I've had a few moments like that, spots of calm precipitation in the midst of a wearying drought.

If I had to think of geographical metaphors for the company I keep, I would stick with Isaiah: Each man shall be a shelter from the wind and a refuge from the storm, a stream of water in the desert and the shadow of a mighty rock within a thirsty land. My friends have been in every case at least one of these things, if not all — they have been protectors of my back and flanks, shields against adversity and suppliers of good things; they have been rallying points and sources of revival to me.

The one blessing I see that is yet to come, and will yet be given to me, is the blessing of arrows in a warrior's hand. I woke up a few days ago with that vision. A voice tells me that the young people I have helped along the way might be thus, a strong and unexpected resource in a time of strife.

But for now, the rain, the rain is falling.