Blessings fall from the sky. Heaven is weeping. The earth is cold and damp this morning, long tired from winter’s weather beating down upon it. The grass is mushy and slippery, and my boot slides across a patch of it and into mud. Fortunately, they are no longer my favorite boots, worn well from years of stomping the streets, the pavement.
The rain smells sad, disappointed, and regretful. The sky is weeping uncontrollably, large droplets smashing against my window shield as I drive to work, causing me to put the wipers on high. I wonder who is crying, whose heart is breaking from up above, and when the tears will stop flowing.
I remember thinking that Heaven has the ability to cry and it comes in the form of rain, that it can become affected by the choices we make from decisions here on Earth. A little drizzle, and the sins are few. A steady rain reminds us to do all that is good. A downpour means it’s time to reflect and readjust.
Campus is drenched, and there are still piles of snow that linger. I park my car and grab my umbrella. The parking lot is filled with puddles that seem to dance as every drop hits them. My umbrella won’t open, and I feel the rain dampening my already wavy hair; it’s going to be even frizzier now. I can smell the pavement—not the way the pavement smells after a rain shower in the summer when the warmth of the sun heats it and steam floats above it, the smell of wet asphalt overtaking your senses, the stench of it sticking to your legs and clothes as you sat on it as a child, playing and not caring that your clothes were getting wet—but the way it smells when it’s fresh and new, like a flower’s fresh bud or the birth of a baby or the first touch from someone you love.
The coldness of the rain washes away the sorrow and pain, the stench of regret and what could have been. There is a sense of forgiveness and cleansing, the pitter-patter of it accenting the ability to do better, be better, and want better.
The rain smells like hope.
Writing prompts can be so helpful. They just get you writing—and thinking.