From the front porch I gaze at lighting flashes in the west as thunder rolls like distant surf. And I hearken intently for the voices of the approaching summer storm.
Through the still air the leaves of the cottonwood across the street gently shimmer. Then without warning, dark, grape-sized blobs spread in an explosive succession of pitty-pats that quickly overrun the driveway with wetness.
Though the vertical deluge pounds furiously now, I'm protected on the shallow porch. I sit with my back against the door… listening.
As raindrops pummel the earth, distinct voices soon emerge amid the clamor of the storm. The thick, bushy leaves of the pumpkin vine beat a hollow cadence like the tump-tump-tump of tympani. From the sidewalk arise successive splashless splats of muffled snare drums.
But the thick monkey grass covering most of the nearby ground silently absorbs the kinetic energy of the pounding missiles without discernable reply.
Soon, the metal downspout begins the rhythmic clattering of castanets. But the rising storm has also lifted another voice vying to overcome the din. And as I shift my head ever so slightly, the cricket's song appears to emanate from different spots. The reflections from nearby walls confuse the grand design of binaural hearing.
Soon laden with moisture, the lithe crepe myrtle branches, festooned on the ends with great blooms, begin drooping like the weary arms of a man hefting weights aloft.
Three minutes pass, and the tympani have quieted. But emboldened by pent-up runoff from the roof, the castanets drown all other voices but the persistent cricket's.
Surprisingly, after a scant five minutes, a star twinkles in the west, and the sound of thunder is but a low murmur in the east. The tired man's arms nearly touch the ground, compelling him to endure his load until the morning sun bids him stand aright once again.
Though the cottonwood swishes about vigorously, I feel little of the rising wind from my vantage point. But the once-silent leaves have assumed a voice competing with even that of the cricket.
And in the summer storm we have a picture in miniature: storms blow into each life… and then eventually fade away. But they elicit a voice from each one they touch–from hollow moans to metallic clattering to silent endurance to drooping wearily like a tired man at the end of the day. A voice reflecting the character of each when tweaked by the fury of the storm.
Having revived the earth, the storm proceeds on its journey–but its departure leaves me with a puzzling thought. Is it possible that God dispatches storms into my life to teach me to endure by anticipating the refreshment to come in the hours that follow?
Distant train, growling traffic, chirruping tree frog: each now offers its voice to fill the silence left by the departed storm. But the cheerful cricket continues unquieted, fulfilling his duties as guardian of the night.
Copyright 2004 James McAlister
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