Yet again the eaves are drip-drip-dropping, and thunder throbs above the clouds. Rain scent falls, hushes the neighbour children, breathes its sweetness in at my open windowpane. Pattering droplets sing their song slowly today, and my heart is glad. Glad for slow rain to cool the day. For dark clouds brooding over the mountains, so I might see their creases and lines differently, like an ever-changing face on those long-standing rocks.

If you ask me, the glory of Summer is not sunshine, but storm clouds. Rain makes me want to shirk my work more than any other Summer attraction. I want to write, to read, to sit on my porch feeling the keen wind waken my soul. There is a holy mystery in the shroud laid over the far foothills. Wet pine is the incense of this moment, the fragrance lifting my senses to the Storm-maker. With the first crack of thunder I throw off the torpid stupor of Summer heat and come alive. Suddenly, all my senses are engaged, awake.

Rain is a revival of the earth—and I would argue, of the soul. It is life and drink to a thirsty ground, a communion of the heavens and the earth. The mystery behind the silver veil of precipitation, the mingled incense of rain and pine, the eyes dazzled by lightning, the earth beneath my feet shaken by thunder, and the cool wind rushing over me engage my whole self in revival. Much like the holy mysteries of bread and wine, the scent of smoking incense, the act of kneeling in prayer, and eyes drawn to the cross at the altar bring my whole body to worship, repentance, and renewal.

Like a lightning bolt to the heart, I see it: I love rain because it leads me to worship. Rain stills my soul and quickens my creativity because it affects all of my self. Those icy droplets, fresh wind, solemn thunder claps, and the vitality showered on the earth are a reflection, a pantomime, of my worship and communion at church. Ah! Rain really is the glory of Summer. The glory and communion of this season. Each season has its own reflection of the worship service, of communion, of coming alive. Even the Autumn and Winter speak of death as but a precursor to new life.

I inhale the scent of wet earth. I feel the flecks of cold water in the breeze. I rock gently with the thunder’s thrumming. I peer through the screen of rain at shadowy wonders. I give thanks to God for watering the earth, the flowers, and the trees. I give thanks that wildfires are not ravaging the foothills. I give thanks for the break from the heat. I smile in joy, just listening to the rain. It is the worship service of the Summer and I am invited. I attend.

Photo Courtesy of James Loesch.