Shush

Sunday morning of Christmas week I wake to the gentle pitter-patter of rain on the roof. The opened window reveals a low gray sky, skeletal trees whose few remaining leaves flutter like tiny flags, the shush of the rain on the deck and through the rain pipe. A dear family friend, a priest, once told me that in Ireland, a day like this is called “a soft day.”

This soft morning brings to mind my parents, long gone now, how they would sit in lawn chairs in the garage and gaze out at the rain for hours on end, hypnotized by the sound, absorbing the fresh air, breathing in the petrichor—that distinctive earthy smell of rain. “Cogitating” was the word my dad would use for what they were doing, meditating, reflecting, stopping for a moment to allow the soft rain to ease their troubles.    

As I stare out the window this morning, other memories come to mind—sitting on the deck of a cruise ship and watching a glacier calve, the great cracking sound of ice breaking away and crashing into the sea; arriving at a mountain waterfall after a difficult hike, the absolute power of cascading water forceful enough to shape giant boulders through the centuries; observing a boundless sheet of stars in a country night sky while camping—other moments when I’ve been so mesmerized, my worries seem to slip away.     

Lingering in bed, the drizzling rain seems especially significant today. There is still so much to do before Christmas—last minute gifts and stocking stuffers to buy, grocery shopping, prepping and baking food, gift wrapping and yet a little more decorating, cleaning the house in preparation for family. Like many, my list is long. But the rain on this soft day reminds me to be still, as it says in my favorite Bible verse, Psalm 46:10. It cautions me to pause and step away from the hustle and bustle, to remember the reason for the season.

Like the comforting word of a mother, shush, this moment says. All will get done; all shall be well.