I have always loved, if not fearfully respected thunderstorms. Having
really been too young to remember any of the near-tornadoes I encountered
while living in Illinois as a little girl, I soon learned to love the feel of
reverberating thunder in the woods of Arkansas coupled by the sound of a
million rain drops hitting their mark on the leaves of the forest.
I counted seconds between the flash and inevitable booming din
that rattled every dish in the China cabinet. I yearned, even then, to
be a part of the storm, often coming to watch it's progress across the
fingers of the lake from the excellent vantage
point of the open porch of my childhood home.
After spending the majority of my life in tornado alley, I spent over four years without thunder. I can count on one hand
how many times I sat in our home in kennewick waiting with baited
breath for the faint echoing boom that would follow each feeble strike. It is soon learned that in the desert, lightening equates fire,
regardless of the accompanying rain. It seems I've never been able to encounter the stuff without heeding the possible hazardous outcomes of being too near a lightening strike.
Now here in Vienna, I find my soul soothed by the frequent, if
short-lived, thunderstorms. Here it has not unceasingly rained for days as it does in the Midwest states,
but rather, one soon develops a sixth sense for identifying the feel of calm stagnant air preceding what will soon become whipping, unpredictable
winds, fat plopping drops of rain...and the thunder...oh, the thunder. It is so different here. It trips over row after row
of hulking buildings like a line of dominoes slowly making their descent. There
is comfort in knowing that there will be no home-wrecking cyclones or
choking wildfires left in its wake. The thunder here is big and loud and
safe. Instead of tenderly clinging to each boom like it may be the last
I hear for years, I find I take comfort in knowing the fickle stuff will soon
shake me to the heart again, waking me in the middle of the night.
I may be living in the city, but my feet will always be anchored
in the country--connected to the earth. During these storms I feel my Maker bringing me closer
to home--whispering to my heart: How great is your God! This is His
creation. I don't let the concrete man-made jungle deceive me; the echos of
creation are in every thundering roar. And I find Vienna is where it
brings me the most peace.
I have always loved, if not fearfully respected thunderstorms. Having
really been too young to remember any of the near-tornadoes I encountered
while living in Illinois as a little girl, I soon learned to love the feel of
reverberating thunder in the woods of Arkansas coupled by the sound of a
million rain drops hitting their mark on the leaves of the forest.
I counted seconds between the flash and inevitable booming din
that rattled every dish in the China cabinet. I yearned, even then, to
be a part of the storm, often coming to watch it's progress across the
fingers of the lake from the excellent vantage
point of the open porch of my childhood home.
After spending the majority of my life in tornado alley, I spent over four years without thunder. I can count on one hand
how many times I sat in our home in kennewick waiting with baited
breath for the faint echoing boom that would follow each feeble strike. It is soon learned that in the desert, lightening equates fire,
regardless of the accompanying rain. It seems I've never been able to encounter the stuff without heeding the possible hazardous outcomes of being too near a lightening strike. 
Now here in Vienna, I find my soul soothed by the frequent, if
short-lived, thunderstorms. Here it has not unceasingly rained for days as it does in the Midwest states,
but rather, one soon develops a sixth sense for identifying the feel of calm stagnant air preceding what will soon become whipping, unpredictable
winds, fat plopping drops of rain...and the thunder...oh, the thunder. It is so different here. It trips over row after row
of hulking buildings like a line of dominoes slowly making their descent. There
is comfort in knowing that there will be no home-wrecking cyclones or
choking wildfires left in its wake. The thunder here is big and loud and
safe. Instead of tenderly clinging to each boom like it may be the last
I hear for years, I find I take comfort in knowing the fickle stuff will soon
shake me to the heart again, waking me in the middle of the night.
1 comment:
This is really beautiful, Gillian, and I especially enjoyed reading it after watching a lightning storm yesterday. Such powerful imagery.
On a side note, for part of the storm yesterday, I was driving along a section of highway in Oregon where there are wind turbines, and I decided to google "can lightning strike wind turbines?" The answer is yes. They are grounded, but parts of them can still be hit and catch fire and go flying off in any direction. And now I'm wishing I'd never googled that and was still ignorant of that fact. But the good news is, I made it home without getting hit by flaming debris from a wind turbine.
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