The First Drop of Rain

by Leslie Parrott

  ice dream

  Winter kept us warm, covering

  Earth in forgetful snow.

  T.S. Eliot

  It is December first and it is snowing. The timing is perfect. It feels like the opposite of the light that turns red just when you need it to be green or the phone that stops ringing just when you finally find it.

  In this perfectly timed moment, the flakes are huge and magical, a swirling show, falling like confetti at a parade. These flakes are collections of dozens and even hundreds of snow crystals clinging together, each flake nearly an inch wide. From the seventeenth floor, we can watch the snow as it falls with our downward view that creates a floating sensation. We giggle with delight.

  This snow is nothing like the artificial snow we made earlier in the week for our gingerbread houses. Tired of the old standby—coconut—we purchased packets of “snow in a bowl.” Mixing a powdery concoction with water, we did indeed create something snow-like that we sprinkled on our gingerbread houses, only to discover the next day that it had melted our candy cane trees and turned our snow pink.

  Seattle doesn’t get much snow. Most winters we are graced with only one or two storms. With the exception of our Olympic and Cascade mountain ranges—Mt. Rainer earned the US record for the most snowfall in one year in 1971 when over a thousand inches fell—we’re more of a rain state. But it’s nice to look outside the city and see our mountains wearing dress whites all winter long, taking your breath away like a loved one in a white tuxedo (whether four or forty-four).

  Tonight the snow falls on a slant, and something about the angle triggers an association for me. Earlier in the day I’d been to a special program with my mom, a performance of the Shorecrest Dance Troupe, a gaggle of angular, adorable adolescent girls in Scottish kilts and argyle. They enthusiastically introduced their dance as the “Taking off the Pants Dance,” a true celebration of liberation by men who had been forbidden to wear their kilts under oppressive English rule and were again free to be their Scottish selves.

  I watch the snow falling, huge f lakes spinning and slanting down into the darkness, and think of it as a dance. In Seattle, snow is liberating. Life grinds to a halt. A city ill-equipped for such storms has no choice but to shut down its productivity, as if voters and taxpayers have conspired to leave Seattle without resources. We raise our snow-white flag of surrender. Why not? Snow days are wonderful fun.

  Snow is also an important source of water for us; those mountain melts are crucial through the summer. Snow is also an important source of insulation, creating a protective layer between the cold winter air and hibernating animals and even plants. Snow forms a literal blanket. Like a wonderful throw blanket at the end of the bed to use while indulging in a power nap, this powdery snow fluffs itself over wildlife. It acts as a kind of throw for me too.

  The trouble with a forced break is choosing how to use it. Should I fold the laundry? Work on my overdue paper? Read the passages I set aside this morning for my nonexistent quiet time? Make cookies with the boys? Return phone calls so overdue I feel almost as rude making them as not?

  Like the city, I shut down. Paralysis. And before I’ve chosen how to use my snow time, the large, spiraling flakes begin to fall faster and faster as the snow turns to rain.

  The snow melts and life resumes. Canceled plans loom again. I can feel the machine gearing up. My “kilt” is traded for “pants.” I turn my face to the wet sky and the falling sleety rain and sing out, “As long as you love me so, Let it snow! Let it snow! Let it snow!”

  The only response is silence and rain. It’s the kind of silence my son John gives me when he’s upset with a disciplinary intervention. It’s a bit sulky, but I know he doesn’t mean it down deep. So I change my words—“as long as he loves me so.”

  That’s the only insulation I need. I feel quietly liberated. I also feel cold, and wet, and behind on all my urgent to-do’s.

  But somehow I’m able to resist. I’m able to simply stand, letting life be what’s important for now. For once I don’t need a snow day to slow down and see.

  to ponder

  When have you experienced that gift of a “forced” break in your routine? What did you let go of? What did you do?

  What is one area of your life that is important that has been squeezed out by what is urgent? How can you find a way to tend to it?

  Circus of White

  Shivery, shimmery

  Sparkling, soaring, sliding

  Star-studded circus of white,

  Performing feats of angle and light.

  Heaven forms a tently top

  Convening the biggest show

  On earth.

  Dazzled Spectators

  Suddenly find

  They’ve nowhere else to go.

  Daring Clouds

  Perform one final act,

  Snow Slows

  To a translucent

  Stop.

  Ice dream dissolves,

  Except

  In my inner resolve.

  thunderhead

  There is not even silence in the mountains

  But dry sterile thunder without rain.

  T.S. Eliot

  Surrounding me in Starbucks are neat shelves loaded with bags of Kenyan coffees described as “bright, citrusy, and exotic in flavor.” Africa has been on my mind because of the headlines, not coffee roasts. In this warm, cheerful shop, I can close my eyes and see mobs brandishing machetes, bloody victims, and refugees huddled in broken buses with only tea and bread for sustenance.

  My son Jackson came home from preschool yesterday proudly adorned with a handcrafted African drum necklace and a simple over-the-shoulder bag sewn from bright African fabric—gifts from his teacher who just returned from studying children’s dance in Guinea, West Africa. Her love for the Guinean culture has established a partnership between these preschoolers in Seattle and those in Africa. Jackson’s classmates learned several authentic dances and performed them for an audience that responded by giving several thousand dollars to fund educational needs in small villages in Guinea.

  This morning, as we moms were partaking in the goodbye rituals of preschool drop-off time, one soulful and intuitive mom connected with this teacher about her “re-entry” process. We commiserated with the shock of returning to the States and how meaningless our Pottery Barn lives seem. The teacher responded that her best moments back home are right at the preschool, in the circle of the children whose singing and community life remind her of the African culture she loves.

  As she described this connection between the circle of children here in Seattle and the ones in Africa, I found myself thinking about the body of Christ in Seattle. It is a truly countercultural gathering centered on community, singing, and joy. I wondered if my church could be considered exotic rather than eccentric by my fellow Seattleites. Christianity is a hard pill for this part of the country to swallow. Only 3 percent of my fellow Seattleites are church-going believers. Maybe in the land of Starbucks and Bluetooth headsets, our ability to be “citrusy and exotic” is akin to what Jesus meant by “salt and light” (Matthew 5:13–16).

  My friend Marta surprised her friends by moving to Nairobi. She’s adopted three children and serves at Daystar University, a sister school to Seattle Pacific University where I teach. While I sip a triple tall skinny latte, I think about her in Kenya. I wonder how Jackson’s love of world dance, and Marta’s life of service, and even the familiar aromas of Starbucks can guide me to a deeper love of my neighbors in Kenya and Seattle.

  I long to be an aroma for those here in my neighborhood in need of joyful, singing community. Will people I meet detect a hint of a Person and a place far away, something true and good and relevant to our here and now?

  to ponder

  In what ways do you live a “countercultural” life as a Christian in your world?

  How might you share a sense of the “citrusy and exotic” or “salt and light” with those whose lives touch yours?

  storm cha
ser

  The awful daring of a moment’s surrender.

  T.S. Eliot

  All powerful storms, like thunderstorms, hurricanes, and tornadoes, share something in common—air. Such storms are generated when warm air rises, creating an updraft that leads to various outcomes, depending on the presence of water and other environmental factors. Understanding the conditions that give rise to these storms is the key to preparing for their devastating effects.

  One of my husband’s favorite gadgets sits in his closet with a continual report on the current temperature and a forecast for the day and week ahead. This guides Les as he chooses his clothing for the day. He feels prepared and in control.

  But those gadgets just don’t do it for me. I’m more interested in my mood than the weather report. Besides, most mornings I’m too focused on getting the boys up and out the door to listen to the news. My decision-making style is what my husband terms “field independent”—in other words, rather than focusing on my external environment, I focus internally on factors independent of my surroundings.

  This can lead to some disastrous clothing choices, like the time I hopped on an airplane with Les and flew from Seattle to Minnesota in my backless mules. Navigating the blizzard in Minneapolis in nearly bare feet was, shall we say, less than pleasant.

  People who are seriously tuned in to the weather fascinate me. Some of these people—so-called storm chasers—are so intensely interested in storms that their idea of a good time is getting as close to deadly, twisting winds as possible. Storm chasers get close to study and measure the winds and to photograph the weather formations. They are fascinated with weather warnings, telltale clouds, and barometric pressure. They have an irrepressible need to experience the storms.

  One storm chaser told me about when she was a child and a tornado touched down in her neighborhood. That close encounter created her deep and abiding fascination with storms, a sort of primal curiosity that was continually pushing her to the next storm site.

  While I never intend to become a storm chaser—or even pay much attention to the weather—I have a deep admiration for the courage and curiosity that energize storm chasers. If I’m really honest, the sort of storms that I wish I could be more mindful of are the inner storms. Even though I’m focused on my mood here and now, I rarely forecast my future weather.

  Inner storms frighten me. Sometimes my emotions gather gale-force speeds so quickly that I feel devastated and shocked. Recently my oldest son had the flu. Now ten years old, he came to me as a pound-and-a-half preemie. Those painfully small footprints left a lasting wound of fear and anxiety in my soul. As his flu-infected frame was bent over a toilet seat retching, I was focused on rubbing his back and bringing any form of comfort and relief that my mother’s touch could provide. I was mothering with all my soul.

  My husband came to help and quickly noticed we hadn’t gotten the seat up (do boys ever remember this for any reason?). In a firm and loud voice, to be heard over the chaos, he asked John to raise it. This request was well-grounded in reason—who wants to clean more vomit-caked surfaces than they have to?

  When John didn’t respond, I got defensive for him. Conflict swelled like a thunderhead. Above our poor son’s retching frame, the storm quickly grew in force. It became so intense I had to leave the room. The storm lasted well into the evening, draining energy that we needed to care for John.

  Seemingly from nowhere, emotional winds had dredged up a collection of relational issues real and imagined, true and exaggerated. Clear skies clouded instantly, leaving me clueless and cold.

  What kind of weather report can prepare you for such storms? In the aftermath, with the landscape of my life littered with emotional debris, I wrote a poem.

  Meteorologist

  Sometimes

  I feel so complex

  I need a map

  Just to orient

  To myself

  (I’ve never been good at geography).

  And Now

  When I feel broadsided

  By a thunderhead,

  I regret

  That I have left unstudied

  Parts of me

  Prone

  To stormy weather

  (Like the Great Plains states of

  Kansas, Oklahoma, Texas)

  I tend to dwell

  in the stable

  territories

  Where I feel safe.

  I’d love to have a meteorologist

  Dedicated to making

  Studied predictions

  About me.

  To wake up to the very local

  Daily weather report

  To help me prepare for torrents

  Of tears,

  Or days like this one

  With out-of-the-blue

  Thunderheads.

  Then I could take care—

  Dress in emotional and spiritual

  Layers.

  But today

  I feel vulnerable

  Spiritually under-dressed

  Seeking shelter

  Praying for protection

  From me.

  to ponder

  Have you ever been caught off guard by an emotional storm within you? Afterward, were you able to understand your own “weather conditions”?

  What do you do to tune in to the weather of your soul? What specific signs have you learned to heed as warnings?

  low visibility

  I can connect

  Nothing with nothing.

  T.S. Eliot

  Many days are overcast. Fog and heavy precipitation make the tops of the trees in the park across the street look like black islands in an undulating sea of gray.

  Pushed inside by the chill, I found myself browsing in a little shop called Clover House, a boutique as adorable as it sounds. Amid the trendy gourmet olive oils and funky handmade jewelry and clever cards made of upscale papers, a sea horse of white porcelain caught my eye. It was clean and simple and it captivated me. In a moment of self-indulgence, I bought it. As I pressed the small package deep into my pocket, I thought, I want to collect sea horses. Never in all my life had I ever so much as considered such a collection. Yet as suddenly as it had occurred to me, I knew that it was exactly what I should do.

  The sea is a place of deep delight for me. I am at home on the beach in every circumstance and season. The sea horse, this paradoxical and mysterious creature, sums it all up. Madeline L’Engle said, “That’s the way things come clear. All of a sudden. And then you realize how obvious they’ve been all along” (The Arm of the Starfish, 1965). Like a fog lifting to reveal a scene previously hidden, I felt somehow more whole, like a part of me that I hadn’t yet known or enjoyed had been discovered.

  It reminds me of the Johari windowpane model of the self that I taught to my students at Seattle Pacific University. It takes the terrain of the soul and divides it into fourths, each quarter based on a single dynamic reality of being known.

  There are places within us that are familiar and that we freely share with others. This is the “open self.” It might be our sense of style or humor or personality quirks. The better the friend, the deeper the “open” places go. It feels good to know little quirky things about the people we love, like their standing order at Starbucks or that they tend to run about ten minutes late. It feels even better to know what makes them weep or their most embarrassing moment. Yet no matter how deep the layers of knowing go, there is more that remains hidden.

  The second pane is the part of us that is known to us but that we don’t share with others. This is the “hidden self.” All of us have hidden thoughts, feelings, memories, choices. Shame and fear cause us to dig holes and bury dark moments in the camouflage of our personal terrain. What is hidden can be forgotten, but it is never gone. We dig up such hidden thoughts in moments of solitude; then, looking over our shoulder, we cover them up again.

  This is a place where grace operates. There is a kind of spiritual archaeology that God seems to be actively involved
in, reverently, with brush and pick. The more we allow God’s knowing of us to come into our awareness, the more we risk and the more deeply we are known by others, and the more hope there is for healing. Secrets are draining. The joy and liveliness of our personal presence is diminished when we are distracted by the work of hiding.

  Once in third grade I shared a poem that I loved. It was actually lyrics to a children’s song called “Can I Borrow Your Burro?” from a record album called Dr. Fun House. When the class erupted in laughter and the teacher responded with words of affirmation, I suddenly realized that they assumed I wrote the poem. Too embarrassed—and too pleased—I neglected to clear up this misperception. My teacher asked me for my copy of the lyrics, which I had written from memory on a piece of notebook paper. I tried to brush off the twinge of guilt I felt.