rainy day parade

Rain, rain, rain.  We enjoy the closeness, snuggled up at home, until suddenly we don’t.

Someone is wise to this:  Dad suggests an evening walk in the cold wet.  The kids rally to this idea because it means using forgotten raincoats crammed in the very back of closets: the slick yellow fireman, the shiny purple with a single flower, the sassy green trench, the all-purpose red hoodie.  Then they look out the window and realize it will be cold.  Wet.  Most definitely wet.  Dark, too, very soon.  These thoughts settle uncomfortably in our minds. And Dad takes walks in the woods, not the roads. 

There is nothing quite like the resistance of a herd.

Somehow he slices through complains with unfettered brow.  We pile in, drive down, park along the woods, a trail I have never seen.  There is a sense of adventure but it is heavily outweighed by reluctance to get out of the car.  Maybe it’s the survivalist in me, or the wimp, or the comfort lover, but these occasions aren’t my gig. 

The sun is gone and the cold rain pitter pats on the windshield.

Dad silently gets out and starts walking.  We better hustle up because he has the keys and won’t be coming back soon.  Our troop begins a colorful march, an unseen twilight parade of purples, yellows, greens, reds.   At first there are complaints.  The rain!  The mud!  The cold!  Dad walks on.   We are silent and small beneath the tall trees, the dark silhouettes of pine branches far above.  Then I start to hum and the little one slips his warm hand into mine.  The older two find walking sticks and begin to explore.  Dad whistles a tune.  The sweet girl spins her ballerina umbrella with the ruffled edge.  Someone starts reciting scripture due for tomorrow’s exam, and the rhythm of the walking noises and the togetherness lifts our spirits and I don’t know how it happens every time but our reluctance is transformed into undeserved fun.  Fun!  We’re in a moment of joy, in spite of ourselves.   

I almost missed this.  We all did. 

Sitting at home, each doing something relatively meaningless, we would never know the beauty of the twilight, the delicacy of light rain in the middle of the woods, the pleasure of being outside and together, cold cheeked but warm within.

I walk and think about this, and am thankful yet profoundly sad.  What else have I missed, what blessings have passed me by?  I am confident my life is strewn with blessings never claimed, now impossible to recover.

One blessing I almost missed I well know.  Number Four.  If God would have asked before sending, I might have said no, God, do you see I already have a baby, a one year old?  A three year old?  A five year old?  I would’ve resisted.  The diapers!  The mess!  The exhaustion!   No, dear Lord, my plate is full.  I’ll pass.

But the Lord knows the blessing beyond, and He gave and we accepted and it took some adjustment but now His blessing has a face.  That very face looks up from the muddy ground and asks me to hold him.  I lift him up, up, up into my arms, and put his cold cheek to mine and blow a soft puff of warm air in his ear.  He giggles while he inhales, a sucking in of life and love: his signature laugh.   He looks at me with green eyes flecked gold and a happy grin and puts his two hands to my cheeks and nose to my nose. 

We are standing in the woods in the dark and the rain. 

I look at him and know I almost missed this.  This tiny lovable guy with a long road of his own blessings stretching before him.  Generations of his offspring:  his children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren.  I almost missed them, too. 

For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future. Then you will call on me and come and pray to me, and I will listen to you. You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart.  Jeremiah 29:10-12