Rain

They always associate our region with rain. Simply mention the word Seattle and almost inevitably follows a flippant condemnation of our pearly gray skies and the constant shower of life that cleanses our air, moisturizes our soil, causes nourishing strength to flow in the xylem and phloem of our evergreen trees, and brings sustenance to a myriad of birds and forest creatures. What is wrong with rain, may I ask? Rain is the elixir of life, the ambrosia of heaven, the gift of our Creator to give us life and light and health. Smell it in the air. Feel the moisture massage your skin. Watch the droplets form at the bottoms of the barren branches and drip in a constant cascade to the sodden earth, soaking, cleansing, rinsing, nourishing and revitalizing like a good shower after a long day of work. And remember the next time your perfect picnic is ruined that the world does not revolve around you. You may be its master, but you are not its sole beneficiary.

They dismiss all of the rain of our region with a sleight of hand. To them it is all the same, pissing for eight months to get to the sunshine that matters. In actuality, there are two different kinds of rain in the South Sound region. There are the chilling cold rain storms of fall and winter which attack the land with a vengeance, held back by the restraining heats of August and September that leave the land barren and thirsty and begging for help like the piercing call of the Steller’s Jay that so dominates late summer days. These blasting liquid sheets ride on the heels of the blasting wind that comes from the southwest and knocks the dead life from the trees and forces it to the ground and hammers it down again and again.

Then there is the steady, gentle sprinkle, one that comes with the high piping notes of kinglets from the evergreen crests, the warmer, gentler massage of springtime, the hands of life that encourage the leaves of the undergrowth to emerge from their hiding places and that leaves the air fresh, cleansed, and smelling of life as the earth whispers a quiet word of gratitude. Such a gentle sprinkle greeted me as I headed into the marsh late one afternoon. A lone mating chickadee call greeted me, reminding me once again of the fact that spring is almost here. The forest heights were mostly silent as the birds huddled in their nests to wait for the morning and the sunshine, but the ever-present kinglets, crested with ruby and gold, sang their thanks to the One who opens and closes the heavens above. I cannot see them, but I know they are there.

Down at the marsh, a mating group of buffleheads nervously take to the air and lands on the other side of the marsh, a bevy of females and three males. I see them intermingling with the males attempting to get the females’ attention with their pumping, bobbing black-and-white heads and great splashes. This is twitter-pating time as the old wise owl immortally put it. But a greater union is still taking place, the marriage between the pearly sky and the green earth, consummated through the liquid droplets of life that descend through the dirt and rocks to become the agent of life for our land.

I think of the similar, sustaining union that I have with my Creator gives me. While it is not a physical consummation like that of the earth and sky and the group of ducks, it is a very real and true relationship. My soul is thirsty, barren, chapped, and crying out for sustenance. Sometimes the nourishment comes with a blast, breaking up the dead things that hang all over me, the dead trappings of sin and human imperfection and drives them down from my clinging fingers to disappear like the dead leaves of fall from the grasping branches. It hurts, and I groan and creak like the fir trees in the whipping wind, tears running down my face like rainwater down bark, but it is necessary and I receive it. More often the nourishment comes like the gentle rain that soaks me as I leave, the smooth, invisible kiss of my Creator as I walk throughout my life, the encouragement, the peace, the joy, the hope, and the love rising up within me as a wellspring unto the eternal life to come.

“Thou visitest the earth, and waterest it: thou settlest the furrows thereof: thou makest it soft with thy showers: thou blessest the springing thereof…They drop upon the pastures of the wilderness: and the little hills rejoice on every side.”

-The Psalmist