I scalded my hand making someone a cup of tea. I didn’t complete a project as well as I would have liked to. I still hadn’t been able to figure out a way to move our furniture from Grand Rapids to Washington at an at-least-somewhat affordable price.
And when I walked out of East Falls Church metro station, finally home after a 12-hour work day, it started to rain. First, a drizzle. Like mist sprayed in the waning miles of a marathon race, it coated my skin, tingling with each icy pin-prick. The type of rain that actually makes you choose to walk outside. But once I rounded the corner onto the street that would take me home…
Heavy drops hit my scalp and rolled forward down my forehead and cheeks. My hair matted and clung to the back of my neck. My suit greedily soaked in each drop like a sponge. And I stopped. Stopped the music playing on my iPod. Stopped walking. Closed my eyes. Stopped thinking about everything that needed to get done that might not get done or couldn’t possibly get done but somehow, I knew, by the grace of God, would.
Just stopped, spread my arms, as if to embrace the rain clouds, and started to run. I can’t imagine what it looked like, an as-far-as-anyone-could-tell grown woman in a business suit at 10:30 at night running, as my Grandma would have said, “like the wild woman of Borneo” down an empty street in quiet suburban Arlington.
Tears turned to laughter. The lame not only walk, but dance.