The Puddle Dance

A brief break for silliness. 

A thunderstorm rolled in during supper time.  Water gushed down side streets. Wind whipped the pansies, a thrash of purple. It was a humdinger.

The storm quickly ended and I surprised my six-year old with the idea of jumping in puddles. Thrilled, we decked him out in my black galoshes and went off in search of a good splash.

We spied some whoppers at the doctor's parking lot up the street. What a JOY it was to watch this energetic child dance and I mean dance in pools of gray water. Charcoal-colored slosh.

I was reminded of our sermon discussion on Sunday about times of transition, that period of waiting in between trial and tribulation. Confusion. Sadness. Not knowing what comes next, but realizing there is purpose.

The storms will batter through. We will stand in puddles, waiting for more black clouds and pelts of rain or the dawn of the sun piercing the darkness.  I watch my son and only hope I can remember to dance while waiting.