When he was a child thunder was a conversation he could not understand. A not so pleasant conversation. One time a storm was so violent it sounded as though an enormous beast would break through the clouds and land heavily on their house. The only object that fell from the sky was hail the size of golf balls.

Then there were other storms where the thunder was not as intense. The rain was gentle. Kindly. These were comforting to him. He would lie in his bed and listen to the pitter-patter of the rain drops on the roof. The rain would wake him as it whipped against his window. In the summer months he would leave a crack in the window so fresh summer air would permeate the space.

As such the rain would whip against the window pane leaving the sill wet and the white paint dull and battered over many years. Faintly he could hear the ears of corn sway back and forth by the wind. And then there was the thunder. A gentle rumble. It was sweet and soft. Tender in a way as a wife speaks to her husband in the still of the night providing guidance in time of grief; support in times of struggle when the burden was too heavy to carry alone. Those were the refreshing rains it seemed.

Yes, over the years he learned that they always ended on a happy note. The gray clouds would disperse. The sun would shine again. The birds chirped loudly. The grass drenched with water smelled extra sweet and the corn stalks seemed to have grown.