Waiting for Grace

PHOTO:Mary van Balen I stand on the patio behind the apartment and watch rain pour down in long lines, like strokes from a pen, shrouding everything in gray. Thunder rumbles in the background. A small chickadee, sinichka my friend from St. Petersburg called them, takes shelter in the blue spruce beside me. We are both hushed into reverential silence. I stand close to the brick house, beneath the overhang. Together, sinichka and I feel the wind and watch it play across the water, patches of light blooming and then, just as quickly, dissoloving back into dark as the wind changes its mind and churns up brightness somewhere else on the lake. Sometimes the light races across the surface, hanging on to the wind, but can’t keep up and lets go, falling back into smooth green water.

We wait, sinichka and I. I’m not sure what she waits for. I suspect that once the heavy rain turns into a gentle summer shower, she will fly off in search of food, calling out “chick a dee dee dee” as she dips and darts away. I am waiting for Grace. I know it falls around me as surely as this morning’s rain, soaking my heart when I open it wide.

I am standing here, trying to be wide. I don’t want my hair and clothes to be drenched, so I press close to the wall but push my soul out into the storm. “Come, Lord Jesus, Come,” I pray like it is Advent.

Big wet drops of Grace hit the protective crust that encases my soul. Messy splatty drops melting some of the hardness away. Somewhere birdsong blends with thunder, an unlikely duet. It works. I look to see if it is my sinichka, but she has gone. The rain has lightened. Opening the apartment door, I walk through ready for work. I hope it rains all day.