Thunder

 

After a long, cold winter, the earth has heaved a sigh of relief, It's warm breath moistening the air and spurring new growth. 

In the afternoons, thunderheads have been sprouting against blue skies, promising rain and delivering little, even though showers poured down all around us. But this morning, a storm kicked off with Goliath's bowling ball bouncing on the roof, followed by raging wind and rain. 

I love Midwest thunderstorms; they always sound like they mean business. Growing up in the Northwest, most of the thunder I remember was distant and didn't send dogs slinking under the bed. 

I was in my twenties when I moved from Oregon to Kansas City. Dad had recounted with fondness the storms of his youth in Illinois. I waited through a bitter winter before experiencing my first Midwest spring storm. Thunder jolted me awake in the middle of the night, and deciding to get all I could out of the show, I padded into the tiny apartment kitchen and popped some popcorn. 

Back in the bedroom, I sat on the floor near the sliding glass doors, my neck craned, and watched in wonder as lightning split the sky, and the heavens roared. It was spectacular, everything I had hoped for.

I will never cease to marvel at thunder and lightning or the reminder that the One who made the storm is the One who loves us more than we can comprehend.

Who can understand how He spreads out the clouds,

how He thunders from His pavilion?

Job 36:19 

For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten son... 

John 3:16 

Check out more sky images at the Skywatch site!

First published on June 7, 2014,

Cockleburs

After October's drought, when the ground was dry as cocoa powder without the flavor, and dust clouds followed our every footstep, the rain on our hilltop this week was a welcome relief. Unfortunately, not everyone benefited; storms caused roads and bridges to wash out and damaged fields and fences, but that's a story for someone else to tell. 

By Tuesday, we had accumulated 12 3/4 inches, and envisioning the streams and tiny rivulets down the hill, I couldn't resist the call of the hollow. Gus and I headed down the familiar trail to a slope overlooking the broad valley. Two brooks rushed over the recently dry rocks, then merged to form a swollen stream flowing to the lake. From my vantage point, the enchantment of it all took my breath away. I knew the valley teamed with ticks, stick tights, and cockleburs, and my better judgment told me to turn back, but the beauty before me beckoned me on.

Down the hill, Gus sprinted across the creek as I picked my way over slippery rocks, the water rushing over my water-proof boots and squishing between my toes.

Once across, I called Gus, and my heart sank as I saw his head pop up from the midst of a field of ripe cockleburs. He limped my way, but the damage had already been done. Many of the small, thorny fruits of the plant were attached to his coat, and every step he took toward me attracted more. 

When he reached me, I stooped and extracted a few from between his paws and others I could get quickly; the rest had to wait until we got home. Armed with cuticle scissors, I began the painstaking removal process, which took nearly an hour and a half and gave me plenty of time to regret my decision to venture into the hollow. Despite the discomfort, Gus remained remarkably patient and trusting, and when it was over,  he was free of the thorns and handsome again. 

Gus's tail before

Gus's tail after

Except for his tail, that is. He noticed the chop job the next day, and if you see him, please don't mention it; he's a little chagrined about his new haircut.