Midday grows very dark. Lightening strikes followed by peeling thunder. Rumbling bumps and crashes as if God hastily moves heavenly furniture in preparation for heaven-bound guests.

Fear flashes. Awe resounds.

We anticipate that the darker the clouds, the heavier the rain. I remain inside. Kids want to venture out in it. Crazy kids.

Nothing escapes the touch of the rain. Saturated. Running off. Pooling. Abundance. Artificial systems of watering turned off; rain is sufficient.

Even after clouds moves out, rain continues to reach down to earth. Running along gutters, dripping from leaf to leaf to leaf to dirt. Seeping between pavers and concrete cracks. Rain knows it is destined for low places.

The skies begin to brighten. Maybe more rain to come later. Who can really predict?

Grace. Grace like rain.

The midday of life grows dark. Fear flashes. The coming sounds of God still us with awe. Our hope in seasons of darkness: The promise of heavy downpourings of grace, of heavenly furniture put in place for our someday arrival.

Meanwhile on earth we are dry. Thirsty. Cracked.

When God’s grace falls – and it will, just wait for it – nothing or no one brave enough to step out of hiding and into the storm will escape His touch.
Grace pooling in our souls.
Running off us.
Streaming through the ugly gutters of our minds.
Seeping through our cracked and broken selves.

Grace drips from one lofty leaf to another, eventually landing on the earthiest, the humble laid low.
Grace is destined for the lowest places, the lowest of people.

Our manmade systems to water and quench thirsts, unnecessary. His raining grace, sufficient.

Who can predict storms of grace? Like children, don’t predict; spend more time playing in the downpouring, the outpouring. Splashing. Laughing. Crazy kids. Faces heavenward, mouths open.

Grace. Grace like rain.