Sometimes

Sometimes a gnarly storm blows in, and you lay awake all night listening to it whip through the forest.

Sometimes, you see a full span, crystal-clear rainbow on your morning commute.

Sometimes, it takes twice as long to get to work because power is out and the street is closed, but you sneak your way in through business parking lots only to arrive and find the playground riddled with tree branches and devoid of students.

Sometimes school gets canceled, and you get to go home.

Sometimes, you get a day off with your husband, with whom you haven’t shared a day off in weeks. You go out to lunch together in your small town, currently empty of tourists, window shop, and walk the dogs in the rain.

Sometimes you take a nap together in the middle of the day, soaking in the sound of the rain on the rooftop, and remember how when you first met you used to do the exact same thing, in a different cabin in a different forest, and you pretend, for a moment, that you are 23 again with no responsibilities.

And maybe, just maybe, God sometimes looks down and notices that your soul is tired, that you’re brought to tears in small moments, and that your measured, above-the-water breathing is occasionally punctuated with wide-eyed seconds beneath the surface.

Sometimes, rarely, you’re gifted a few extra hours with the one you love, hours in which you can breathe deeply and feel blessed. And in those moments, the feel of the gratitude bubbling forth is as powerful as the time itself.

circa 1998