Walking through the streets of London, my mind became automatically filled with one-liners from any song about London or fog or rain that I had ever heard of in my life. They all ran together as if I had just mastered a new piece of music, repeating itself over and over in my head. A tune that seems lost now that I sit in my comfy bed with the sun shining in through the windows and the Texas heat to accompany it.
But if I close my eyes and think back to those days I walked around the streets, I can almost feel the mist of the clouds that hovered over that town. I remember climbing the 500 plus steps in St. Paul’s Cathedral to reach the very top, to walk outside and see all of London covered in a grey haze. A haze that rests and stays on every corner and every street. A color that envelops all others and makes the beautiful place we call London resemble a 1950s sitcom they would call Pleasantville. I could feel the rain softly falling around me, not forceful or aggravated or annoyed that I would dare to step outside without an umbrella, but instead carrying an indifference to my presence.
A foggy day in London town. I believe that sums up my past month. The haze that sat on the very tops of all the buildings in London, now sits on me. It sits on my thoughts and excitement and actions and holds back all the color that Papa so lovingly pours out on me on a daily basis. I feel like I’ve been walking around in a haze, moving from one place to another, not taking time to breathe or rest or soak in all the joy of the day.
It’s as if I’m stuck on one long travel day.
And I’m tired. I’ve fought lie after lie, each one hitting me with the impact you feel as you round the corner to find yourself caught in the most surprising of wind tunnels. I lost my shield, dropped my sword and I stood unprotected. The sound of it all drowning out the strong voice of my Father; my ears too deaf to hear Him, my eyes too blind to see Him.
Then I remembered how much I love the rain. How water has always been used to teach me the most beautiful lessons of my Savior. How I used to sing for my Father to let it rain so I could dance with Him. I remembered how I walked those streets of old Londontown with a smile on my face for everyone who passed by. As the rain fell and my hair stuck to my face and curled out every straight end I had, as my feet and shoulders and hood to the absolutely not waterproof jacket I wore were soaked through to my skin. I remembered that I wouldn’t be able to see that haze, to see the sky, to see the streets I walked without the glorious light of the sun making its way through that fog, through the mist and rain and grey. The light that continued to shine just beyond the clouds.
That even in the hardest of moments I had learned to keep walking, I had learned to stand and believe that He was still there with me. In every drop of rain that fell, in every ounce of seemingly dull color, He was allowing me to still see Him. He was allowing me to be right where I was, without ever leaving my side.
He was giving me the opportunity to dance in the rain.
He set the stage, dimmed the lights and offered His hand. It only took me a few weeks of stubbornness and wallowing in self-pity to see it. And when I allowed myself to see it, when I picked up my head I saw what makes cloudy days so beautiful: that moment when they seem to burst open in random spots. With rays of sun shooting forth to the ground below; filling the horizon with a daily reminder that He is still there. He is still good. He is still shining. And so are you.