This afternoon, I got drenched a few moments after a peal of thunder warned me that the isolated thunderstorms were isolating in my direction. It was one of those rains that forced me to remove my glasses and then continue on with my eyes closed as much as possible. The rain was so heavy on my lashes that I couldn’t keep my eyes open.
Still, I didn’t mind the rain or my dripping clothes when I got home.
Was it because
(a) our zucchini plant really needed it?
(b) I like the extra weight-training resistance of soggy sneakers?
(c) I need a new cell phone, and I’ve heard that getting it soaking wet is a surefire way to speed up its demise?
(d) it’s the two-birds-with-one-stone phenomenon: a workout and a shower all in one?
(e) I like irony: today was the first day I remembered to take a bottle of water with me since I started running again after Little Bean’s arrival?
(f) or because sometimes that’s when God shows up?
Obviously (f) is the right answer since this is a sabbath meditation.
Well, okay, (a) is correct, too, and really, I do need a new cell phone, and I didn’t need a shower after the run, so I guess you can give yourself partial credit for those.
The truth is, as I ran through the torrential downpour–I am not overstating it; J had a towel hanging on the front door for me when I got home–what I most noted was how tangible an experience of God can be in moments when we least expect it.
Right as the rain started, it was in those few seconds of the heat being sizzled away, as if the road itself were breathing out a hot, stuffy sigh of relief, that I breathed in and thought, This is the breath of God.
I don’t know why I thought that, but I did.
And as the cold water began to pour, I could feel it dripping down through my heavy hair into my scalp and–literally–the heat pouring down my neck, being washed away.
Maybe I was in a particularly reflective mood because I thought, Like the Spirit of God, pouring over.
Then, when the rain stopped, and my feet became heavy in my shoes, squashing and squishing and making my return journey rather unpleasant, there was the incarnation so real before me: Christ, sloshing up the hill on Hiawatha Trail. Christ, who in his humanity got dirty and squashy and muddy and still knelt down and washed his disciples’ feet.
Yep, that’s who I felt in those squishy, sodden sneakers.
When has God been revealed to you in a tangible experience?