Pink Thunderstorms

I have a real problem with believing I don’t deserve things. Not things like Prada, to be clear, but things like farm animals or a writing career. Despite this flawed way of thinking, God repeatedly shows me that I do deserve some serious grandeur at the very least. Like this pink thunderstorm for instance. You read that right. I was privy to my first ever pink thunderstorm. It was quite possibly the most exquisite sight my eyes had thus far beheld in my 30 years here on earth. And it was happening right out my window at 5:30 a.m.

I awoke to a barn-rattling thunderclap that jarred me out of an uncomfortable dream about ticks embedded in my legs that I was trying to claw out. I was happy for the intrusion and happier yet that it was because of thunder. I was lying there, having checked my phone and deduced that I still had an hour and a half left of blissful slumber before I had to be up for work. Maybe the wind had picked up or another thunderclap had cracked, or the sudden gusts of rain slapping against my window had alerted me, because I tossed my quilt aside and went to the window to investigate.

When I pulled the curtain aside, I saw what seemed to be a deleted scene from The Wizard of Oz. I had to resist checking my legs for ticks to be sure I wasn’t still dreaming. A pink haze enveloped the whole outdoors, like the inside of a snow globe lined with cotton candy.

The pink sky was clearly from the sunrise, though there was no sun in sight. Then I noticed the wind whipping up dirt and powerful rain in miniature tornado swirls across the horse corral to do a dizzying drunken dance right into my window pane. Which is when I realized rather large gusts of rain were suddenly blowing in. I slid the window shut while still looking on. Two of the horses who had shelter were partaking of it while looking slightly askance. While all the other horses suffering through the elements seemed nonplussed. I stared for a moment, completely mesmerized by the pink and the swirling. And then the thunder clapped again, like God was in a horserace and was whipping his steed to move faster, move faster.

I wanted to watch the whole thing play out, but I felt the pull of my bed and my coveted one point five more hours of sleep. I laid back down but left the curtain open to watch, while I happily dozed back asleep to the thunder and the wind gusts.

I would later play the image of the pink thunderstorm and the swirling wind tornadoes over and over again in my mind.

So alright. Maybe I don’t have a farming/writing empire yet, with a handy bearded husband who likes to rope things—me included. Ya know, rope me and then tie me to the bedpost. I am kidding! Sorta. Though, my ex used to joke that he would in fact tie me to the bedpost. But not in the fun way. He said he’d do it in order to deter me from this penchant I have about saving the rainforest and chaining myself to trees in order to stop factories being built. He said he would do a simulation and tie me to the bed, turn up the heat and play the movie, The Jungle Book. This scenario was definitely when I fell in love with the kid, but no matter. That ship has sailed and I digress.

But, c’mon, man. Pink thunderstorms?! That has to be right up there with odds like getting struck  by lightning. Okay, maybe they’re not that rare, but still, I feel like God was up to something and up to something good in order to shake me up.

Shake me up to that nonsense about being undeserving.

If that was His M.O. then I think I got it. If God thinks I deserve pink thunderstorms, then just you imagine what else I probably have got coming to me. I actually can’t even fathom, because I never even considered pink thunderstorms.

All I am saying is, if you’re anything like me, then you will have your moments of debilitating self-doubt from time to time, but keep your eyes and ears alert, because God has always got something wild and wonderful up His sleeve.

We’re Glad You Are Here

I often feel lucky. Extraordinarily lucky to be precise. Even when life sets me back with unexpected pitfalls, I can usually see the comedy in the situation, at the very least. For instance. My plumbing went out recently in the house I am staying at. Besides, having one day where I overflowed the toilet by attempting to do the dishes and having to cart loads of murky toilet water out to the weeds with a milk jug, I also lived like I was camping for a few weeks, with no ability to use the bathroom or sinks.

If a pioneering lifestyle was one I had pined for then I had gotten what I desired, I surmised. Splashing myself with ripe sewage water while sweating profusely was comical yes. Having to go to the bathroom late at night and running behind a pine tree, also worth a chuckle. A friend stopped by one day and I confessed that perhaps I had slipped into a sewage funk from the fumes. She insisted I stay with her for a few days in her cozy log cabin. And that brings me back to that whole luck thing.

But it’s not luck really, though, like I said, I oftentimes feel very lucky. It is simply that God spoils me, even in the midst of sewage funks. Or regular funks, which I had admittedly been in for the last couple days. I don’t know why but I couldn’t shake this insane fear—could’ve been prompted by some bad men and even worse dates—that I was going to end up a barren spinster, living alone in the woods with weird hair and a slew of dogs, watching Dr. Quinn and polishing my rifle collection. Though, honestly, that sounds slightly bad-ass in the admittedly crazy lady way. At least where the rifle collection and dogs are concerned.

Being at my friends house for a few days had helped. It also helped immensely when we went out for pizza on Wednesday night—Hyattville’s hub of social interaction—and I got to visit with some of my favorite people in town. This one older couple I adore had joined us for dinner. The husband of the pair always says the loveliest things to me. When I first met him, he said his name and when I gave him mine, he said, “I am happy to know you.”

This time after visiting throughout dinner and telling him stories, while he and his wife in turn shared stories of their own, he told me, “We’re glad you are here.” That one sentence warmed me more than the two nearly full glasses of cabernet I had paired with my pizza.

Then later when my friend and I got back to her place we had a fit of giggles over our two glasses of wine. She confessed in a bright burst of enthusiasm, “I could either do a hike right now or go to bed!” I felt the same, though, about fifteen minutes into conversation we realized bed, it was. At least I did, as I made my way upstairs and promptly crashed in a fizzy wine, pizza and gratitude haze, replaying that line in my head, “we’re glad you are here.”

Despite the glory of log cabin sleepovers with a girlfriend that makes me laugh and town folk who make me feel oh so welcome, I still couldn’t shake the funk. And admitted it to my girlfriends when out at a brewery the next night. They had all been telling hilarious stories about their husbands and kids and I sat there in a mute panic, thinking, what if I never get to be a part of this club: the Hubby Horror Stories and My Kids Are Driving Me Nuts Club? I felt stricken and downed my beers and tried to stifle my worry. When I finally fessed up to my weird mood and weirder fears involving Dr. Quinn and dogs named after my ex-loves, one of my friends said I needed to just unleash and let loose a stream of f-bombs. I laughed while loving that advice. I did unleash, venting about such fears, though I refrained from the f-bombs.

I tried to cool my jets and stop stewing on it but still the fear taunted me well into the next day. It didn’t help that my job had been going dismally slow, allowing my brain to fester and my boss to not so helpfully distract me with the status of his lodged earwax. I wish I could tell you I was kidding, here, but discussing my boss’s earwax was an actual conversation I had at work this week. Well mostly, a one-sided conversation, because I didn’t much know how to respond to such scintillating talk.

I went to a friend’s house after work that day and while she was finishing up some farm chores, I visited with one of her horses, who curiously came by to check me out. I rubbed the side of his face with my hand, and felt an odd and immediate comfort from the large animal. I looked at my reflection in his eye and said, “It’s been a rough couple of days,” thinking he might understand. He may have horse problems, or he may not. Either way, it felt good to get it off my chest to a completely impartial party.

The strong and sincere comfort I had gotten not only from my kind friends but from the horse gave me an idea and on my drive home I pulled off at a barn where I usually stopped on my runs out into the country. Here resided two unbelievably friendly horses. My favorite horses in Hyattville in fact.

When I got out of the car and began walking toward the fence, I saw one of the horses munching away, but when she spotted me, she immediately abandoned her food and trotted toward the fence to see me. I felt so grateful. She stuck her head over the fence, close to my face, bending down to let me pet her. And she didn’t stray. She let me pet her over and over again, while I whispered things to her. Then she inched her face closer to mine so that her lips seemed to brush mine. I would run my hands all the way up to her ears and along the side of her neck and back down. She would give me what felt like a kiss in exchange. So I finally pursed my lips with a slight giggle, and she leaned in and did it again.

And just like that, my fears began to melt away. I knew she understood. Maybe not the fears of being alone, or maybe indeed, as she seemed all too happy to keep me company and forgo her dinner for a bit. But either way, she knew I needed her and though she may not need me—she has a caretaker after all—she seemed glad I was there.

I drove home, feeling somewhere in the vicinity of sublime, again thinking of that sentence, “we’re glad you are here.” For now, knowing that some very fine people and horses were glad I was around, well, it simply would have to do. I would have to shelve my worries that terrorists would get me before a good man did. That’s not a real theory right?