I love rain.
I sensed the air outside would greet me with cold winds as the outdoor temperature had chilled the steel doorknob by osmosis. As I swung the red, wooden frame wide open, the rugged door creaked with the sound of age, and the plastic curtains on the window screen rustled as it danced with the intruding draft.
The weather was unusually cold, probably not to the locals but only to the sun spoiled Californian. Standing there at the threshold, I contemplated my choice of attire having worn nothing fitting for warmth but a thinly gray sweater with flip-flops exposing my warm-blooded toes. Though insufficiently geared to walk the arctic corridors of the neighborhood streets, nevertheless, I dared let the puddles drown my feet.
I paused with veneration and absorbed the breadth of Mother Nature, immersed in her howling winds, showered in the songs of her tears, and gave homage of awestruck wonder to the Creator. It was as if the rain was as flowing garments from the very throne room of God. So I tread through the arts of God and man, the marvelous weather and the exquisite homes gracing the south side. The rain trickled the longing land and gently sprinkled my thirsty skin; and the air of redemption swept the atmosphere like thick clouds brushing a littered floor with its bristles of precipitation.
I feel fresh and clean.
The brisk walk in the rain is liken to that warm feeling of waking up to a crisp cold morning and fending off the iciness by snuggling up to a comfort blanket or fluffy-white pillow. The surrounding remains iced by the unforgiving cold while I lay content in the thawing bed. As I stroll through the rain, likewise, I fend off the wet with the shield of an umbrella. The earth around me gets drenched by the natural rainfall, and I witness it, feel it, though from a castle of safety, under the roof of the umbrella.
It is a delight every time.