Seeing The Light Through The Clouds

I like to stare at the clouds sometimes. They try to bug me, following me around, but I have learned to smile at them and snap pics of them to spread across my computer screen. Those drip-drops coming from my clouds shout out as they fall, “HEY! Amy! What school, what town, what house, what people? Were in the HELL are you are going to live?” (My husband, the breadwinner, is seeking a job— somewhere. We have only lived in our current home for under a year, but our move here led us to a job that was not right (click if you're interested.) His next job could be in San Francisco, Boston, NYC or possibly, Timbuktu.)

The cloud’s lightening crashes into places like my SUV on the way to school. I’m trying to escape as I sing the lyrics, I don’t Even Know if I Believe,” by Mumford and Sons, but the rainy crescendo overpowers poor Marcus Mumford with, “Amy, how the HELL are you going to get your oversized house ready to sell when you’ve got two dogs, two cats, 2 geckos, a newt and a three crazy young kids (one with special needs) and a husband running around?”

Finally, a bucket of water splashes down from the cloud at night when I’m listening to my little girl cry out about the fear of leaving more friends. The moisture of our mess sputters all over the pretty pink walls, “Amy, how are you going to protect your babies from the pain of leaving more people? Leaving another home? How are you going to keep their joy inside? How?”

Then I think of the people I know. Most of them have clouds, too. Like my friend who has been fighting cancer. She also has a torment of threat above her, sitting there every day. Hers' makes mine look like some kind of mist, just a vapor in the wind.  I admire my friend. I hold her life up in the light, to turn and observe, like a fine specimen of a human being. I am strengthened by her words about pain. I’m emboldened by how she shares, how she walks fast through it all, feeling it, revealing it, then moving on. Admitting that the experience of fighting cancer is not glorious. It is scary. It is painful. It sucks. 

Then I think of my friend who mothers her special needs child and his sibling without any father at all.  She cares for her parents too, and she has health problems of her own. My friend can’t take a job because her family's needs don’t allow for any long period of time for her to be away, doing something ludicrous like working toward one thing, for money. No, she doesn’t get the satisfaction of simplicity like that. Her life is complicated beyond my comprehension. Yet her face lights up and her voice sings when we talk. She has incredible conversations with me (when we can find a minute,) and she reminds me that giggles and gratitude and love come from inside the most difficult of circumstances. 

Then I think of the homeless guys at the shelter where I serve lunch. I used to be scared of them, and sometimes I still am. When they stare at me a little too much, I’ll admit, my knees shake and I shift from leg to leg with discomfort. But when I connect with them, when I get past my jitters, then I get to see incredible stuff. Their storms are scary, and lonely, and tired, but they reveal treasures I cannot access in my shallower darkness. I get a glimpse of the power that these men have to grin, to say a kind word, to crack a joke, even when they are without a home, without money, without family. Their eyes grasp light-filled sparks of time that they share with me if I allow myself to look in their direction, and if I'm willing to listen.

And let’s not forget Moses. Even if you aren’t a “believer” you must know about him. Moses walked toward the cloud that held GOD. He was scared, but he did it! Moses knew, way, way, way back then, that the beauty of all of creation was inside the darkness, inside the fear. And he had to walk there to share it with all of us.

So today, I’m gonna keep looking inside the collision of precipitation that is raining over me. I’m not going to run away. But instead I’ll share it. I’ll keep on pulling out what I can find in there, and when this storm ends and the rainbow comes again, I have faith that there will be sweet, green and yellow and orange new life. I’ll drink it up, leaping and hollering over the fact that my rain turned to honey. That my storm led me to goodness again, as it always does. 

Thank you God for the strength of your light that sometimes can only be seen in the darkness. Thank you for the raindrops that patter above all else, for the storms that are strong enough to find us, and for the sweet flowers of new seasons that are forgiving enough to embrace even souls like mine, once again.