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As I've thought about what it means to behold creation over these past few months, I realize Anna is on to something. Beholding is not just about seeing. It's about touching. And listening. On a sunny day I gaze in wonder at the splendor of an oak tree. I pick up a crisp, orange-splattered leaf and run my thumb over its veins. On a day like today I just listen to the tireless tap of a steady autumn rain.
In his essay, "Rain and the Rhinoceros," Thomas Merton calls the rain the most comforting speech in the world. Maybe that's why my daughter likes to hear it first thing in the morning. The rain reminds her that she is not alone. It audibly connects her with a source of life beyond herself, with what some might call the hum of creation. I think of it as the love song of God.
The kind of gentle rain we're having now is the kind that keeps us company. It fends off loneliness and fear of drought. It reassures us with a rhythm whose mysterious beat we will never quite understand, a rhythm not of our own making. With its soothing voice the rain coaxes us into accepting that someone else is in charge. And then it makes us feel good about that truth.
"It will talk as long as it wants, this rain," says Merton. "As long as it talks I am going to listen."
Me, too.
Like all natural phenomenon, there is a voice to be heard in the sounds they produce, whether a fire, a wave, a breath, a rumble in the ground, or the splat of a rain drop.
ReplyDeleteWhen I say I listen to a still speaking God, I refer to a wide range of options. I'm glad that Anna has learned to listen young.
It's raining now as I read this. One of the things I love about rain is that it draws me inward. When I hear it, I want to snuggle on a couch with a book or write in my journal. Rain, for me, provides a respite from extroversion.
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