A Torrid Affair with the Rain

I am mesmermised by the adventurous tales of Bilbo Baggins as I become insidiously distracted by the soft, gentle pitter-patters on my living room window. I amble my way onto the outside porch, soaking in the calmness of the pitter-patters on my face and its bittersweet smell, the tall green follicles of the earth all around me. That pure, smell of spring, the rain illumining the green grass and leaves a relaxing comfort.

Why are the heavens weeping? Perhaps the angels are weeping over sinful humanity, the sorrow too heavy for their eyes as they watch us tumble into the tempting entrapment of sin. Tales of murder on endless scales—children its victim, and innocent women. War breaking out one after another, taking more innocent lives with it—just legalised murder. Poverty all over the world, and rich men who care not for such poor souls. Pestilence breaking out in the poor, dry countries of Africa. They could use some rain; they could use some healing. As the darkness of humanity becomes more copious, it is no wonder as to why the floodgates of the angels’ eyes have burst open upon the earth.

Water, one of God’s many created paradoxes. The pitter-patters are so gentle as they fall upon my face—so gentle, and so nourishing as the substance of life. Yet it is destructive. Water has piled upon cities in tsunamis, floods, and hurricanes, annihilating peoples’ homes and leaving them in poverty, and taking innocent lives. Then it calms, floating there on the earth’s surface so gentle and calm, everything still and the people bemused, as if the destruction that came before never happened. It is peaceful as it rests still, yet it can be so conniving.

Tears roll down my cheeks. Or is that the rain? I cannot tell. Soaked in the bittersweet rain, I begin to shiver. O rain, your gentle pitter-patters are so soft and welcoming. Why do you have to be so condescending? I slouch in the wet grass, desiring the floodgates of Heaven to open up and pour its grace upon the earth, for the dull clouds of Satan cover it.

But who am I to offer such a request? I am only a narrow fellow in the tall grass having a torrid affair with the rain.

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