Storms give me comfort

It's another overcast, thunderstormy day as I write this, and, as usual, I love it. It is dark and close and gloomy with billowing thunderheads. The sun barely rose before it disappeared again. It may as well be late afternoon or early evening for the look outside.
The light is amazing -- soft and warm and comfortable. It always makes me want to grab an enormous novel, like "Gone With the Wind" or "Les Miserables," and melt into it, tucked into a blanket throw on the comfiest chair in the house. (We have a two-person chair in the living room, and an overstuffed chaise, so it's a tossup.)
"Oh Rhett, come lie down next to me and look at the clouds!"
It's dark enough to require the soft yellow light of a lamp. I love reading through the golden cast of lamp light on an old book's yellowing page.
What's more, with school over, I can actually make time to do it. The bookshelf that's been accumulating hardbacks from rummage sales and stores can finally be paid attention to. And, if I can just curb my desire to "work around the house," I can enjoy a few hours of thunderstorm-inspired down time.
Hearing the rain
The thunder starts rolling in the distance, sometimes hours before the storm actually arrives. It's as if it is dancing circles around us. The rain begins softly, and then it drives against the roof so that I can actually hear it from inside if I'm upstairs.
(There is nothing like falling asleep or awakening to the sound of rain on the roof. One of Norah Jones' songs says, "I want to wake up with the rain falling on a tin roof, while I'm safe there in your arms." That's the feeling in a nutshell; whether you're in someone's arms or not, it feels as if you are.)
The roll of thunder brings to mind all of the childish myths we shared on rainy days when the "old man was snoring." It calls to mind my mom's wink and the words, "God is bowling." Or someone saying it was the sound of the angels rearranging furniture.
As the thunder gets closer, my dog, Zeke, does, too. If it's a big clap, he'll come running into the room. If it's the distant murmur, he ambles near to me and nudges my hand from my book. I pet him. Everything is OK, he is reassured, and returns to his bed for a thunderstorm nap.
One of the students I taught this spring semester at YSU was a tornado chaser; he hopes to be a meteorologist some day soon. To him, I think, storms are exciting. There is a bit of that in thunderstorms for me, too.
Storm damage
One year, the transformers on three poles near our house exploded one after the other in a storm of sparks. We had just moved into the neighborhood. It was in the early a.m. hours, and yet we stood in front of our barrel window in the living room watching as transformers two and three burst into the dark sky.
We had the radio on to hear the weather report and listened for the siren, in case we'd have to use our darkroom for a tornado shelter.
More recently, lightning hit a neighbor's home and the lights went out on the block in a tremendous flash and ka-boom! Firetrucks raced to the neighborhood to prevent a disaster. We lost two TVs and the surge protector on our computer.
Now, when thunder in the distance becomes near simultaneous flashes of lightning and sound, we race around the house and unplug everything we hold dear or expensive. (In fact, I am wondering how long I can keep typing before I need to make my mad dash. I will wait until the last minute, just in case the storm rolls on by.)
A reminder
But this doesn't dampen my love for thunderstorms. They are an extraordinary reminder of the power of nature, and the safety and warmth of my home (and how lucky I am to have it). I need such reminders.
And, if the flowers' blooming, and the birds' singing, can't arrest my attention from everyday concerns, and focus it on God's free fortunes and the ones my husband and I have earned with his help, then certainly a powerful clap of thunder rattling the windows can.
Maybe it is, after all, the sound of God bowling -- bowling us over. "Hey, you, wake up!"
murphy@vindy.com