...And the Rains Came Down...

During the past week, parts of Salt Lake City have been completely washed out due to heavy rainfall (and probably poor city planning and overcrowding, but those are topics for a different day). No matter how much we hoped, however, we never got more than a few drops in our neighborhood. The wind would blow, and the air would cool as if we should expect a storm, but it would invariably fail to drop anything. Wednesday night, we even got some lightning--I was trying unsuccessfully to fall asleep, but as soon as the giddiness from seeing a few flashes through the cracks in our window blinds wore off, I was out cold.

I've loved rain, and thunderstorms in particular, for as long as I can remember. I used to lie in bed as a child, just listening to the pattering of the rain against the roof. If there was any light to be had outside, I would watch as the lines of water running down the window continually twisted and changed the profiles of the houses across the street.

During the summer in Boulder County, we could expect a storm nearly every afternoon. My brothers and I would ride our bikes to obscure corners of our town (boys with bikes are always on some mission or another), and race home as soon as we felt the first drops of rain. Every time, we would pull into our driveway looking half-drowned.

When I got older, I would drive to the top of one hill or another as the clouds rolled over the Flatirons, and just wait. From that vantage point, I could see every bolt of lightning. On Independence Day, a bunch of us gathered on the roof of the movie theatre where I worked to watch the fireworks. We were able to see several displays throughout Boulder Valley, and I decided that the roof would be a good place to watch the thunderstorms as well. Not long after, I started calling lightning, "God's fireworks."

I think my subconscious remembers these times, even if I don't think of them. If there is any real amount of cloud-cover and I hear any kind of "boom", my ears instantly perk up, hoping to hear the next crash of thunder. All too often, the sound I hear isn't related to lightning, but is a neighbor falling down the stairs or something. So I was a little startled when, while sitting around and visiting with my brother and his family, I heard what was unmistakeably a crash of thunder. A little while later, we all heard another one, about the same time that the rain started.

My niece was afraid of the sounds, and wouldn't go near the patio door. My brother and I tried to convince her that lightning was really a beautiful thing, and nothing to be afraid of. She may not have believed us, but I'm sure she wanted to--she tried to tell us that it was the stuffed penguin she was holding that was afraid of the thunder. Maybe some day she'll appreciate it as much as my brother and I do.

When the thunder stopped (it didn't last long, just like my niece had prophesied), she started a game of hide-and-seek, evidently completely forgetting her previous fear. I wish I had a picture of Zarah folded into the space under our desk. She informs me that I'll not be getting such a picture.