It was a classic July day in Massachusetts. Hot, humid and muggy. All one needed to do to work up a sweat was lift a bottle of cold root beer to one’s parched lips. Even the flies were perched and panting instead of pestering. A mosquito diving for my arm collapsed on the ground before drilling and drinking from my veins. There were no sounds of mowers or chainsaws. There was the faint sound of “The Turkey in the Straw” coming from a few streets away as an ice cream man sought to capitalize on the stifling heat wave. The hydrangeas sagging and wilted were begging for water. My dog was complaining that these days were named after her. Why should she get the blame?
But wait. Did I see a maple leaf move? Did our red, white and blue stir? Did I hear the faintest rumble coming from the west? Yes. It was going to happen. The temperature dropped from 99 to 98 and then to 96. The promise was in the air. The very top of the oak by the mailbox ever so slowly bent just a bit as the rumble from the west turned up the volume and became a low guttural growl. The temperature was down to 90 and dropping.
Oh, the sweetness of those first cool drops. Sometimes it’s grand not to have too much hair as those friendly refreshing drops splashed on top and erased the memory of the swelter. I love hot July days in New England. There will have to be storms in heaven or at least on some far off planet we can visit. It wouldn’t be paradise without the coolness of rain.
Written by Roger Bothwell on July 8, 2013
Spring of Life Ministry, PO Box 124, St. Helena, CA 94574
Rogerbothwell.org