I spent most of last week fighting sickness. I crashed on Tuesday, missing the gym and most of the work day while languishing in bed or on the couch. My respite gave me enough power to be back at it on Wednesday with just a nap in the afternoon. I’ve been enjoying the golden hour solo lately with my kids off working or friending and my hubby dealing with his long commute. Like most days when I’m alone, I went for a walk under the sun. I didn’t check the weather. I simply said bye to my daughter, who was getting ready to leave herself, and walked out the door and down the street on my typical 5,000 step route. My body needed the activity.
The route takes me through our small neighborhood and then across the road up into a field. The farmer swaps out corn for pumpkins each year, and this year it is corn, and the stalks have grown high in the last month. They tower over me. Always aware of bears and deer and foxes, which can dart out of the crop without warning, I was happily listening to my podcasts as I hiked the small hill through the field, oblivious to the darkening sky.
And then the air shifted. The prickle of wind and drop in barometric pressure that signals a storm is coming was palpable. I was near the top of the hill and picked up my pace to make the turn to head home before I got caught in the storm that was brewing. I was a little more than a half mile from home at that point.
My problem solving brain ticked off my options: (1) call to see if my daughter had left yet and if she could pick me up; (2) run; (3) walk faster and pray.
Since I knew my daughter had already left, and I hate to run, I chose 3. It didn’t work. I made it to the bottom of the hill and crossed the road into our neighborhood when the downpour came. Then I started to run.
There’s something freeing about running to shelter in the rain. As the water pelted my face and soaked my clothes, I embraced the joy in it. It felt surprisingly good. Not the running part, of course, because I definitely hate running, but the getting caught in the rain.
After I had a good laugh at myself, I took a hot shower and started to assemble my kids’ birthday presents. We had to celebrate a week early because my son was travelling abroad for his birthday, and I was headed to a conference across the country. Because it was going to be the first time my kids and I had been apart on their birthday, I wanted to do something special. So I arts and craftsed my way to a special gift for each of them, and the next two days I planned a mini-party for the four of us at our local cider mill. I made sandwiches and a fruit platter. I got store-bought sushi and a gluten-free crumb cake at the local Peach Festival. I recycled my birthday balloons, which deflated almost as soon as I took them out into the hot night air, and I spent most of the evening trying to get them not to float into our food.
The celebration was perfect, despite the sad balloons. The four of us chatted, adulted, and generally enjoyed each other’s company.
The week was filled with small, beautiful moments that countered the struggle. I’d spent most of the week coughing and generally feeling awful. I got caught in a downpour I never saw coming. My son was leaving the country, and I was leaving for work, which meant we were celebrating my twins’ birthdays on the wrong day. None of this was what I would have planned for one of the last week’s of summer with my kids.
But joy isn’t always found in perfectly executed plans. Sometimes it’s found getting caught in the rain.
Leave a comment