I was standing by the slider when I saw the first drops hit the pavement, and then I heard Adam's voice calling out to me from the other side of the house. I shuffled to where he stood just outside the front door, and he gestured toward the sky where a faint rainbow was just beginning to form. I grabbed my phone and scurried, shoeless, to the front of the house where I found a perch in a lonely dry spot underneath the garage overhang.
I watched as a gentle yet surprisingly heavy mist --because that's what it was, a mist; a beautiful, weepy mist that filled my parched heart to overflowing with its majesty-- coursed from the heavens to the earth in delicate, vertical waves. I watched as the rainbow grew in intensity and color; I marveled over how it arched across the sky, with one end glowing as if to indicate the presence of the fabled pot of gold. I went inside just as the violet faded to lighter purple and the gleaming red became a less remarkable shade of pink. I told Adam about it and then settled in for our evening, watching Minions together and laughing at its silly humor and just enjoying our moments as they ticked by.
And then just a little while ago, it hit me. It's January 31. Logan should have turned 9 1/2 years old today. And as I looked back at that rainbow and at the furious --and bizarre-- weather that preceded its appearance, I knew that in whatever way it's possible, my Sunshine was in it. And he --and God-- knew I'd seen it because I was supposed to see it; I was supposed to see the weird, raging storm followed by the gentle rain and finally by that incredible rainbow. That promise of better things to come after the turmoil. And he knew that even if I didn't get it in the moment, that I'd get it later and the connection would send a chill down my spine and bring a tear (or five) to my eye. It amazes me that I ask for signs; beg for them, plead for them, in fact. Yet so often, I miss them entirely.
So happy half-birthday, Logan. And thank you.
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