I missed the rain. Not physically, I didn’t miss it; I was soaked to the skin. Ahead of the others in my kayak, booking it towards the bridge, towards shelter. For a moment I noticed the beauty of each drop hitting the water, but then it came harder. And I paddled counting for 100 with every stoke, then starting over, and over, and over. I missed the rain. Later I learned that behind me they were celebrating, wet beyond wet, but who cares? It’s only skin; it will dry. But me? I was too preoccupied to care, noticing the chill, the uncomfortableness, the water. And I wonder how many other small details I miss? How many times do I pass up the chance for silent enjoyment? How many more times will I?
See, I’m headed into a busy season- a time of run, run, run. I have to be up by seven tomorrow. It’s almost midnight; I shouldn’t be writing this. I almost didn’t turn on the light and start, but I didn’t want to miss the rain again. I don’t want to skip the water fight so I won’t be miserable bike-riding home. I don’t want to miss the flowers, or fail to use the moment. I’m headed into a busy season; tomorrow I start school. This week begins a bajillion other things. But in the midst of the chaos, during the cycles of study, run, study, run I pray that I don’t miss the God moments along the way. I need to be purposeful and make times like this priority. I missed the rain once, and now I know that the bridge isn’t as appealing as it appears. I know that I don’t want to miss the rain again.