Finding Beauty in the Storms

When I was a small child, I spent a fair amount of time in my grandparents’ residence, especially during summers it seemed. There, I learned about gardening, and how to make “Mimi’s iced tea,” and the freedom of running through the sprinkler in your underwear on a hot day. We ate homemade popsicles and sour grapes and ran around with our cousins until we collapsed on the cool ceramic floor.

The days were relaxed and easy and full of sunshine.

But sometimes, as summer afternoons seem to produce, a storm would roll through. And as the skies would darken, we’d run into the house to take shelter. You’d think that as young as we were, we’d be frightened by the storm. But Mimi would express her gratitude that the flowers and the plants were getting “a nice drink of water”. And when the thunder and the lightening would begin, and a thunderous clap would shake the house, my grandmother would shout, “Home Run!”. Yelling as loud as the thunder itself, her exclamation never gave us the opportunity to fear the startle that the thunder clap produced. “The angels are playing baseball” she’d tell us- likely her monotheistic version of Zeus and his thunderbolts, to ease our tiny nerves. She’d even call out their names “Nice one Gabriel! Whooohooo Michael is up to bat!” We were too busy imagining a celestial ballgame via my Mimi, the sports announcer, to fear the storm that was passing overhead.

Maybe that’s where it started.

Or maybe it was my father, scooping us up in his arms and running us outside, to watch under the shelter of our tiny porch, the “light show” of purple and white lightening bolts ricocheting across the dark skies. “Ooh! Ah! Look at that one!”, he’d comment on the weather phenomenon as if it were a fireworks display.

“You don’t think it’s scary Daddy?” A natural angst ran through our youthful veins as we stood outside, just out of the elements, in a powerful storm. “I think it’s beautiful” he’d say. And under his protective arms, our anxieties turned to excitement as we searched the sky for the glorious electrical surprises.

Maybe that’s when I learned to find beauty in the storms.

 

Those are amongst some of my earliest memories, before I was even school-age.

I feel like we tend to hold a special place for our early-childhood memories. The ones we have before reason and intuition and the awareness of life’s challenges become blaringly apparent to us. Memories, like secrets, tucked away in a treasure box and kept for safe keeping before the storms of life start rolling in.

And lord knows, the storms would be many.

Poverty, addiction, abuse, illness, divorce and death…like hurricanes raging through my life…with them came damage. That damage took years to repair and brought with it, the reflexive action to board myself up and hide; like a shore-side resident battening down the hatches before the storm hits. Only, I hid emotionally, not physically and the boards were nailed to my heart, not my home. Despite my early childhood lessons, I had forgotten how to look for beauty. I learned to be both afraid and numb at the same time. Negativity disguised as “realistic expectations” invaded my every view of the world; and I came to expect tragedy everywhere.

Every life encounters storms, some more than others. But no one is immune. Heartache and hard work, misfortune and tragedy rain down on everyone sometimes, regardless of your background and life choices. It’s what you do when those storms come and what lessons you choose to take away with you, that begins to define your character.

 

It took me years to see the beauty in my storms.

The beauty in poverty that is the drive to work hard and learned resourcefulness.

The beauty in pain that is perspective and an understanding of both humanity’s tragic weakness and tremendous strength.

The beauty in broken promises that is the opportunity to mend and then grow.

The beauty in ends, which yield new beginnings.

 

Beating rains both tear-down fragile plants and soften hard grounds.

Floods, whilst destructive, yield fertile soil if you take the opportunity to plant seeds in it.

Dark skies cool the air and make us appreciate clear ones even more.

And after the storm, despite the damage and debris, there is always a quiet and a sense of new beginning as the birds and small creatures venture back out of their nests. And small children find puddles to jump in.

 

I remember the first time my children witnessed neighborhood kids running and screaming when a thunderstorm rolled in. They watched with puzzled expressions, the cartoon-like antics of the panic-stricken children collecting their toys and scrambling inside. And they asked me, “Why are they acting like that?”

“Because some people are afraid of storms.” I said. I explained how storms can bring strong winds and how lightening can hurt you, and that we must find a safe place and exercise caution. “Or, maybe it’s the loud thunder that they don’t like,” I said…

“But my grandmother and your Pops used to say …” and I picked them up and took them to the front window, to sit on my lap and shout “Home Run!” while we watched the “light show”.

As a girl, (and still now), I prayed that every day be a sunny day. Under blue skies and puffy white clouds, I rolled in the green grass, hunted for bugs and hidden treasures and soaked in the warmth of the sun’s great rays. My soul remains invigorated by the energy that a warm summer day produces. And it is calmed by its quiet nights when crickets and peepers lull me to sleep.

Never do I look to the skies and ask for a storm to come. Never would I choose dark clouds over cotton-ball-white ones or beating rain over clear skies.

But when the storms do roll in, because they inevitably, always will… I am grateful for a child-like grandmother and a brave and understanding father, who taught me to find beauty in the storms.