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  • Writer's pictureKris Freudenthal

Outside My Window

I've been reading through some of my past writings through this season of healing God has been carrying me through. And I found a little piece I wrote shortly after moving to South Africa. It's not about the healing process, directly. But I thought it was worth sharing for those that seem to enjoy the crazy things I write. I hope you enjoy it. God bless! Written in 2017

The water is forced against the glass with such strength that is loses all shape; the wind blowing it into pieces against the window panes. Does it know how desperately we needed it to fall to the earth? Does it know how we’ve prayed for it’s coming? When the rain formed in the clouds above, did it realize we were standing below wishing it would fall? Could it feel the earth crying out for moisture, for the coolness of water, for salvation from the endless heat and dryness of this place? How long had the rain waited within the cloud before succumbing to the calling of the earth itself for relief? No matter. At least this cloud decided to rescue us from the drought. At least this storm didn’t pass by as so many before it into the great unknown, choosing to let down its blessings on other towns, in other parts of the world while we continued to wait, and pray, and plead our case before the Heavens themselves. This storm, merciful in nature, selected us as its recipients. And we humbly and gratefully accept it, no matter how little or how large the water levels it chooses to give. But as the sounds of rain fall heavily outside, I can’t help but notice the absence of thunder, of the cracking of lightening. In my home land, so far from this new place, the sound of such heavy rain would always have been partnered with the lighting of the sky in streaks of beauty and the powerful voice of thunder itself within the clouds above. They worked in time, a team, creating a sky masterpiece, a symphony of nature on display. And they had a way of easing the very spirit within us, calming us to a place where nothing existed except the man and nature. But here, in this new world I now call home, it is only rain. It is still a sweet sound, mostly because of the longing that has preceded it. But it rings slightly off key as it plays its song all on its own. Only once in the year I’ve lived here have I seen the fire streak across the sky that I was so familiar with in my former life. And only once did I hear the thunderous voice of storm clouds bumping into each other. I stood in that storm for hours, watching and listening, disregarding the wetness to simply enjoy the familiar. It was a beautiful moment. There is still beauty in this storm, mind you, as with each storm that decides to pour forgiveness onto the land in the form of much-needed water. But it’s a different beauty, a new beauty, a feeling and sensation all its own. The peacefulness is still present, but in a unique way. The smells of freshness still accompany the rain, but with a different tinge of something unknown. I wonder if those so familiar with this land even know the storms are different. Or do we simply know what we have always known to be true – only what we’re familiar with?

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