As the storm descends on Brookside, I speak a few soft words to the dog.  She settles in her bed and I climb the stairs.  I sit in front of the open window, letting the wind flow past, eyes closed, feet on my grandmother’s little stool.

My week held much.  Clients who cried in my office; a few hours of personal panic; fellowship; friendship; some Come-to-Jesus moments.  Humanity showed itself in great waves.

Now the thunder ripples and crackles through the sky.  The broken blind falls in a crooked pattern and the flashes of lightening play on its slats.  I find this week of weather disconcerting, more like a Missouri spring than late summer.  But I will not complain.  True enough the weeds have overtaken the garden and the dog whimpers if I try to coax her outside after dark.   It could be so worse though; ask any Italian.  Any Syrian.  Any worried mother of a son walking home from school.  Ask anyone with anything different about them, standing in a sea of sameness, frightened and alone.  I can weather this storm.  I have seen worse.

A few hours ago, my legs quit working and I actually slept away the evening.  When I awoke from an uneasy dream of catastrophe, the dog had fallen quiet on the stoop.  I stood outside watching the gathering gloom, thinking, How lovely the sky!  How majestic!  Then I let the dog skitter past me into the kitchen.  I said goodnight to my neighbor, who waited for his own dog scampering around their yard.  Something close to peace filled my breast.

It’s the twenty-sixth day of the thirty-second month of My Year Without Complaining.  The heavens just opened and rain pelts the roof of my home.  But I am safe.    Life continues.




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