I am mesmerised 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 cabin 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 the leaves.
Why are the heavens weeping? Perhaps the angels are weeping over sinful humanity, the sorrow too heavy for their eyes as they watched us tumble into the tempting entrapment of sin. Tales of murder on endless scales—children its victims, and innocent women. War breaking out one after another, taking more innocent lives with it. Poverty all over the world, and rich men who care not for such poor souls. Pestilence breaking out in poor countries.
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 is 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. But then it calms, floating there on the earth’s surface so gentle and calm, everything still and the people bemused. 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 soft 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.