The sky this morning is gray, and rain fell during the night. It’s still raining, I suspect, judging by the sweet scent coming in through the open door in our bedroom. It looks much like most of last month looked out there, but it is decidedly different.
This particular gray morning comes on the heels of a couple of weeks of warm and sunny days—days that were perfect for working in the garden and puttering around outside. Days in which I chatted with others at the community garden, reacquainting ourselves after the winter absence. Days in which I got close with flowers behind the macro lens on my camera. Days in which I sat on the deck and watched and listened, and other days when I tended to things in my home with doors and windows wide open and the fresh breeze of spring wafting in.
Now it is May, and I’ve experienced enough to trust in the trajectory of spring and see gifts in the gray that I’m waking to this morning. The hummingbirds still buzz around the feeder outside my bedroom door, unaffected by the changed weather pattern. The hills on the other side of the valley, as green as they’ll be this year, drink in the moisture—they’re so pretty, before the desert-like heat turns them brown.
And I’m sitting here sipping soy milky frothy coffee and thinking about faith, and grace, and resting in the right now, and the rain is sweet. And I’m thankful for it.