Somehow it seems perfectly fitting that it is raining on the last workday of this week. Kind of a seeping shower that wicks into the flowers growing by the side of the house. A calming gray sky lowers into the hills, dimming the horizon and pulling it in close.
It has been a week of rain, strange for September’s beginning in Kansas. Following one of the wettest Augusts on record. The pastures that are usually brown by this time of year are lush with green. The corn harvest that is usually in full swing is stalled out; the grain is too wet and the fields are too muddy.
Life does not always follow its usual cycles of seasons and sameness. Sometimes tornadoes form in November and snow falls in July and sometimes people die decades earlier than expected. Sometimes there is a miraculous healing and sometimes there is not.
I guess it’s precious little comfort but I’ve seen rain ruin the parades of other folks as well. I’ve seen the rich and famous plagued by the same sort of heartaches that afflict the anonymous poor. I’ve seen people in poverty laughing fit to burst and joy on the faces of the powerless.
It’s not the circumstances that determine the course of one’s life or the potential satisfaction that one may derive from it. And while it might be a really lousy day for a picnic in the park, it’s a mighty fine day for meandering about a museum.
And for being grateful for a decent job and a good roof over one’s head…