Whatever the Weather

We’d been under a severe weather watch for days in anticipation of a collision of natural forces which had not even formed yet.  It hit, finally, this perfect storm, on Saturday afternoon, as we made our way home from the First Communion Mass in town: torrential downpours driven by powerful winds, severe cloud-to-ground lightning, and a threat of tornadoes.  I’d have liked very much to hunker down indoors until the worst of it was past, but, alas, the work on a farm must go on, no matter what Mother Nature throws at us.

We were between storms when we went out to milk.  We did our work with one eye on the sky, which was getting darker and darker.  And there was that distinct feeling in the air, the one that inspires an urgency to find cover as soon as possible.  Leaning up against the cow, waiting for the machine to finish drawing out the milk, I looked out past the barn gate to where the chickens had been scratching a few minutes ago.  “Looks like the chickens went in,” David remarked.  I nodded, anxious, watching the flow of milk through the lines.

Finally, she was done, and I left David with the clean up, hurrying across the field to close up the chickens before the storm hit.  Just my luck: one hen was resisting and three roosters were still out, trying to coax her indoors.  She saw me and decided that my presence was coaxing enough, and two of the roosters followed her in. The third, though, backed out and took off across the field.  Lightning flashed and I circled around to steer the rooster back toward the hen house.  He balked at the door again, as the thunder rumbled and a steady drizzle began to fall.  I circled around him again, and again he balked.  “I’ve got one rooster too many,” I hollered at him, “and if you get shut out, it won’t break my heart!”  At that moment, the heavens opened up and the rooster and I found ourselves standing in a wind-driven downpour.  He hightailed it inside and I closed and barred the door.

With my jacket pulled up over my head in a vain attempt to stay dry, I ran as fast as I could back to the barn.  David was just settling in on a hay bail, and he laughed at me as I sat down, soaked through, beside him.  The wind was so strong, it blew the rain clear through the barn.  I got up and made my way to the back door to slide it shut, to the relief of the two cows who were hiding in their stalls.  And then we stood there, listening to the rain drumming on the metal roof, waiting for it to let up enough that we could get back to the house.  A child dashed out to save the sidewalk chalk that was getting wet even on the porch.  A small river flowed past our feet.

At last, we could hear each other without yelling over the incessant pounding of the rain, and we knew it was time to go.  He grabbed the milk bucket and the umbrella, and I let him through the gate and closed it behind us, bidding our companions good night, and good luck.  The children hadn’t even missed us.

I bottled the milk, and washed the babies, and glanced through the kitchen window as I passed.  The setting sun shone strong from beneath the clouds.  The fields looked particularly green in that brilliant light, beneath the heavy gray sky.  I passed off the baby and picked up the camera to photograph this delicious contrast between light and dark, sun and storm, before it was gone.  And I stepped out into the storm, into the rain and the wind, and I was awestruck.

What an incredible sight, and I’d have missed it if I hadn’t gone back out to capture what I only thought was there.

Blessings in the storms.

Graces in the trials.

Beauty when we least expect it.

And so we suffer our burdens, carry our crosses with patience and joy, because even in the darkness, God shines His light.

But we have to go out into the storm in order to see it.