For as long as I can remember, I’ve loved afternoon and evening thunderstorms. During high school, I spent storms on the porch swing, watching, listening, waiting. Feeling. Looking south and west over the elevator and beyond the edge of town, I could see a storm approaching — dark sky, curtained by rain — long before I could hear or feel the storm. But then there was a moment, a turning point, that brought a drop in temperature, a blast of wind, and the much-anticipated rain.
Commence swinging.
I watched from the porch swing, remember? That swing was perfectly placed for the best arc, and at the outer limit of its range, my tan legs extended, I could reach the rain. Sitting still — sitting rather than swinging — I was safe and dry, but I prefered to swing out into the storm. For a split-second, my toes tempted danger and my stomach flipped with both the motion and the thrill.
Overnight storms are less enchanting; I can’t truly watch them because I can’t truly see them. Overnight storms are sneaky, drawing nearer as families sleep. Their danger isn’t thrilling or tempting; it just seems so real. Too real. In the extreme, storms in the night are killers. We can’t see them approaching until the danger is too close to avoid. Lightning strikes and house-shaking thunder tear us from sleep and leave us disoriented, wondering what just happened.
Storms in the dark of night rip us from our dreams and force us into a frightening reality.
As the early morning clock crept into Mother’s Day, I was still wide awake. I’d seen the forecast and knew storms were headed our way, but that’s not why I was awake. I’d been dreading Mother’s Day, my first without Cooper. It seemed fitting for thunder, lightning, and pounding rain to escort the day. My mind has been its own storm for days, trying to reconcile (over and over, again and again) my reality. Why shouldn’t Mother’s Day arrive with a storm?
An expected storm.
Both storms — in the sky and in my mind — were expected. One was forecast by weather apps, the other by Moms Who Know. Both were real.
But then the unexpected melody of windchimes began competing with the sounds of the storm — the very storm that had awakened the chimes. With each new gust of wind and wave of rain, the chimes sang and the sounds blended together, comfort in the storm.
Today has been a storm. Maybe in the future, when the pain and grief and missing him aren’t so raw, Mother’s Day will seem more like an ordinary day, but today, it is a storm. Thankfully, just as in last night’s thunderstorm, the chimes have joined the day’s cacophony, providing comfort in my storm.
Chimes surrounded me today, and in so many ways. Texts from Cassidy and Logan. The steady, gentle presence and reassuring hug in a very dark moment. The silent squeeze of my hand as I passed by a Mom Who Knows. The kind words of those who listened to me sniffle through church. The heartfelt messages from my friends and Cooper’s friends. A normal lunch and sometimes-comical card game. My dad’s comforting arm around my shoulder, my mom and sister’s fierce hugs. The whooshing of a swollen Crooked Creek as I checked one last time for mushrooms. The cardinal that flew across my path and the owls chatting around the neighborhood. Chimes.
A storm ushered in this day and stayed a while. The overnight thunderstorm eventually lulled me to sleep with its sounds; the storm in my mind is another matter altogether. It prefers to keep me awake with its taunts and worries. Storms are beyond my control. All I know to do is face them, keep trying, and listen for chimes.
Woods Writes 