There are two kinds of people in this world.
The ones who groan when they see rain in the forecast...
And the ones who secretly hope the thunder starts before they fall asleep.
I'm definitely the second one.
There is something about a loud thunderstorm that gives me the best night's sleep.
Maybe it's the steady rhythm.
Maybe it's the feeling that the whole world has been told to slow down for a little while.
Whatever it is...
I never seem to sleep better than when the rain is pouring outside my window.
The next morning is my favorite kind of morning.
Sweatpants.
An oversized hoodie.
A messy bun that stopped trying to behave hours ago.
A warm cup of coffee.
The lights dimmed.
Grey's Anatomy quietly playing in the background.
Sometimes a book in my lap.
Sometimes my Bible open beside me.
The windows stay closed, not to keep the rain out, but so I can hear every drop as it dances across the glass.
The whole house feels softer somehow.
Of course...
Peace only lasts for about five minutes when you live in a house with seven kids.
Cabin fever has a way of turning perfectly sweet children into wonderfully feral little creatures.
Eventually someone starts wrestling.
Someone else is building a blanket fort.
One of the kids is asking if they can go play in the rain.
The dogs decide they need to supervise absolutely everything.
And before long, our peaceful little rainy morning has transformed into the wonderfully loud kind of chaos that only a house full of children can create.
I wouldn't have it any other way.
One of my favorite rainy memories happened while we were living in St. Louis.
It wasn't anything extraordinary.
Just a gentle drizzle.
The kids were outside splashing through puddles, laughing so hard they could barely stand up.
Nobody cared that they were soaked.
Nobody cared that the grass was muddy.
For them...
Rain wasn't an inconvenience.
It was permission.
Permission to play.
Permission to get messy.
Permission to simply enjoy the moment.
I think children understand rain better than adults do.
Adults see muddy shoes.
Children see adventures.
Which brings me to one of my favorite rainy day memories.
My nephew, Ulric, has a pet puddle.
Every time it rains, he faithfully goes to check on it.
He feeds it.
Sticks.
Pebbles.
Leaves.
Little patches of grass.
Whatever treasures he thinks his puddle might enjoy that day.
Then, every morning, he'll wander back outside to check on it again.
He does this until the sunshine finally dries it away.
I've never had the heart to tell him puddles aren't pets.
Because when I watch him care for that little puddle with such excitement, I can't help but think...
Maybe adults are the ones who have it backwards.
Maybe the world would be a little brighter if more of us believed puddles could be pets.
At least for a little while.
I think that's what I love most about rainy days.
They remind me to see the world the way children do.
Not as a list of inconveniences.
But as a place still full of wonder.
Rain has a funny way of washing away more than dirt.
It quiets the rush.
It slows our pace.
It reminds us that not every day has to be productive.
Some days are meant for books.
Some are meant for naps.
Some are meant for a roast in the oven with carrots and potatoes filling the house with the smell of home.
Some are meant for soup simmering on the stove while everyone wanders into the kitchen asking when dinner will be ready.
Some are meant for listening.
Some are meant for remembering.
And some...
Are simply meant for feeding your pet puddle.
Until next time, there's always another chair by the fire waiting for you.
— Cara
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