A Moan In The Rain

There are times I love being British.

Walking to work in the rain is not one of them.

Typical conversation: “Lord, what difference would 30 minutes of dry would have made?  It wouldn’t have ended the world, it wouldn’t have drained the oceans, it wouldn’t even have upset global warming.  Half an hour.  That’s all I wanted.”

And I think He’s smiling, half exasperation, when He replies, “You moaner…”

Or maybe He’s just tempted to wring my neck.

Because, really, in the grand scheme of things, getting wet walking to work?  Well, it’s pretty low on the list of world catastrophes.  In fact, I doubt it even makes the list.

Starving children smiling as they play in the rubbish heaps.

A man smiling a greeting to everyone as he walks into work, knowing he’s dying of cancer.

A family smiling for the Christmas photo whilst they fight to keep their house.

You know, would it really be too much to ask me to smile after getting a little wet?  Really.  If I stop and think about it.

That’s how selfish I am.

That’s how me-centred I can be.

That’s how stupid I can be.

So today, walking to work in the rain, I whisper a prayer.

Just thanking Him that I’ve got legs to walk on, that I don’t have to worry about drought, that the school has heating, that I’ll have a set of clothes to change into when I get home, that God didn’t blast me from the sky for moaning about something stupid.  And that He’s still talking to me.  Crazily.  For some reason only He knows.

Oh, and the way that one little rain drop touched my cheek and felt like a kiss.

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