When The Rain Keeps Falling
Death giving way to birth.
“Why does it rain every Easter?” our youngest asked today.
“Did it rain last year?”
“Yes, it always rains on Easter.”
“I know it’s rained a lot on Easter, but I think last year was nice.”
Back and forth we went for a few minutes.
In between glorious bites of egg casserole, pancakes, hashbrowns, and bacon.
A few hours earlier, I was on my old man walk.
Hood up while the rain was coming down.
I texted Brooke from the rain free confines of under my hat bill and hoodie.
“It’s quiet out here. The rain feels refreshing actually. It’s cleansing.”
I’m not really sure why, but I thought of a counseling session from 7 or 8 years ago.
When I point blank asked, “when does it, like, get back to normal?”
In the middle of some dark, stormy nights of the soul, my Enneagram 7 instincts were going crazy.
I was ready for light-hearted.
Fun.
Some games.
Parachutes or fireworks or at least a piñata.
But, the sun never seemed to shine.
For months and brutal ass months.
You know how songs become soundtracks to certain seasons of your story?
In 2015, Andrew Peterson came out with an album called “The Burning Edge of Dawn.”
When my subconscious shit hit the fan in 2016, a good friend recommended I quit talking and start listening.
Letting the stories and sounds and songs saturate into my soul.
One of the tracks that torpedoed straight to my heart terrain was “The Rain Keeps Falling.”
If you’ve never heard it, listen to it.
But if you don’t want to, here are the lyrics:
I tried to be brave but I hid in the dark
I sat in that cave and I prayed for a spark
To light up all the pain
That remained in my heart
And the rain kept falling
Down on the roof of the church where I cried
I could hear all the laughter
And love and I tried
To get up and get out but a part of me died
And the rain kept falling down
Well I'm scared if I open myself to be known
I'll be seen and despised and
Be left all alone
So I'm stuck in this tomb and
You won't move the stone
And the rain keeps falling
Somewhere the sun is a light in the sky
But I'm dying in North Carolina and I
Can't believe there's and end to
This season of night
And the rain keeps falling down falling down
Falling down
There's a woman at home and
She's praying for a light
My children are there and they
Love me in spite
Of the shadow I know that they see in my eyes
And the rain keeps falling
I'm so tired of this game, of these songs
Of the rote
I'm already ashamed of the line I just wrote
But it's true and it feels like
I can't sing a note
And the rain keeps falling down falling down
Falling down
Peace, be still peace, be still
My daughter and I put the seeds in the dirt
And every day now we've
Been watching the earth
For a sign that this death will
Give way to a birth
And the rain keeps falling
Down on the soil where the sorrow is laid
And the secret of life is igniting the grave
And I'm dying to live but
I'm learning to wait and the rain is falling
Peace, be still peace, be still
Peace i just want to be new again
Be still
I just want to be closer to You again peace
Lord, I can't find the song be still
I'm so tired and I'm always so wrong
I need peace peace
Help me be brave tonight be still
Jesus, please help me out
Of this cave tonight peace
I've been calling and calling be still
This rain just keeps falling peace
I've been calling and calling be still
But this rain just keeps falling and falling
Peace is it You
Be still is it You
Peace is it true
Be still is it You
Peace, peace
It was one of those songs where the first time you hear it, it felt like a floodlight went on inside the darkest corners and crevices of your inner world.
Shielding your eyes from the light, while simultaneously sobbing and smiling.
Making sense of the mystery and the MF’ing madness and shame.
“Normal is long gone. It will never return,” the only pro in the room said.
Well, F.
It felt like the forecast called for storms for the foreseeable future.
Frustrations.
Fixations.
Failures.
Faults.
Flaws.
Flubs.
Fears.
F ups.
The rain kept falling.
Longing for the light and getting nothing but gray skies does some devastation.
And while you’re in it, you scream for relief, respite, and relaxation.
But you keep getting soaked.
There’s no playbook or prescription to predict when the rain will cease.
And yet, in some magnificent way, with a mind-numbing slow pace, the rain does its work.
Soaking the good seeds, flushing away the shame, and introducing hope.
Over time, your relationship with it changes.
From a relentless resistance to a respect of the resource with the deepest of reservoirs.
As the rain relented tonight, and the sunset ripped through the sky, the tone and tenor changed.
“The morels are gonna be poppin’ this week after this rain.”
Birth always follows death.
Peace, be still.
📸: Brooke snagging our Blackstone-stay-dry set up today for Easter breakfast.