The storm

I'm caught in the rain again, even though the sun was shining just a moment ago. Without an umbrella, most of my being is covered -- no, saturated -- in an unexpected shower. This deluge is not warm and suitable for running and recreation like it usually is in the Florida summer. No, the water is cold and unpleasant, worthy of hailing pneumonia. I can't see in front of me, my surroundings appear like another dimension where the rainfall is my only sky and water is my only oxygen.

In the desolation of this downpour, I'm frustrated, lost, disoriented, and shamefully afraid. This shouldn't be happening to me, I usually prepare for storms! My socks symbolize my dignity, for they are the only part of my clothes that are not sopping. But that soon changes as I blindly step into an ankle-deep puddle, splashing away any iota of dryness. I'm left with nothing, not even a hope that I'll find shelter. Hopeless and wet -- hopelessly wet -- I begin to cry, figuring no one will notice my tears among the infinite droplets of this incessant rain.

Minutes that seem like days go by as I aimlessly search for warmth or shelter. In my pridefulness (the only sense of character that I had left), I tell myself to stop this pointless crying: I'm a grown man, in the prime of my youth! My misty eyes cloud my vision more, until I reach out my hands to feel my surroundings. At long last, I feel the rough stucco siding of an unfamiliar house. I feel around until I reach a covered porch, which feels more like the beautiful sanctuary of a European cathedral -- warm, intact, and timeless.

I dare not knock on the door, for fear that the home's inhabitants will kick me asunder. As I settle under the strength of the awning, I notice that the downpour lessens in intensity. Minutes that now seem like seconds go by, and now the last drop has fallen. The dark clouds separate like theater curtains that reveal a majestic actor, the Sun. He reflects himself in the shallow puddles that are now the only afterthought of the monsoon. With the newfound light, I soon realize that this unfamiliar home is none other than my own house, the house of my childhood. I had felt lost and worthless of redemption while in the midst of the epic storm, yet I was only in my own front yard the entire time.

Realizing that I had no need to knock, I entered my own front door, greeted with the warmth and familiarity that welcomes every person when they reach their own home. I am shivering from head to toe, stricken with water, mud, and lack of humor. Yet in the aftermath of my struggle, I am exuberant -- never have I been so happy to be home and indoors! My house, which had always felt too familiar, too mundane, had become a sanctuary once I had endured a seemingly endless damp night of the soul.

Never was I more thankful for what I already had than after that fateful storm, where I thought I had lost every sensibility. I again left my house without checking the weather, I was to remain vigilant, lest another tempest overtake me.