Something different happened when I left the office tonight. Well at least different from the previous two nights.
It was not raining. I simply note that. I am not complaining about the rain.
Places are desperate for rain. Children of God are dying, in part because of drought.
The simple reality is that for last two nights I and many other New Yorkers have made our ways home in the rain; others have endured the rain because they had to work or because they had no place to take shelter.
Tonight, it was overcast and damp when I stepped outside. But not precipitating.
This led to an interesting conversation:
When I was a child, I used to believe that the rain was God crying. That’s what my mother said. And I believed her.
Maybe, I said. We certainly give God enough reasons to cry. Look at how we treat each other, what we do to each other.
We do. We do.
We bid each other good-bye and I headed on toward the train.
And then the obvious flaw in that idea occurred to me:
If raindrops are God’s tears, it would never stop raining.
See you along the Trail.
Along the Graybeard Trail 