Thunderstorms

The sky darkens as the clouds tumble in.
Thunder rolls in the distance.
Lightening flashes bright against the dark clouds.

Rain is coming.

There is a strange sort of peace in the fierceness of the storm. A lesser person would cower in fear from the ferocity and awesomeness of such a display of power, but not I. No, instead I stand listening to the symphony and watching the dancers of this dangerous spectacle as the lightening dances across the black stage that is the night sky and for a brief moment, the landscape around me is lit up in a bright, white light where every shadow is gone and every detail is visible. But only a brief moment passes before the world around me is brought back into utter darkness, with only the timpani of the sky remaining, a deep dark sounding timpani that rolls throughout the sky, emitting a sharp crescendo before slowly turning into decrescendo that echoes around the hills of eastern Nebraska.

The gentle sound of falling needles seems to turn quickly into the shattering of thousands of panes of glass as the clouds burst above me. The great boom of the timpani in the sky seems to never end as flashes upon flashes of lightening burst all around me. Everything around me screams of the power of the Almighty Creator. For the moment, I am in awe of the great symphony of nature, one that God has placed here for me. No band, symphony, orchestra, or any of the like can even hope to compare to this moment.

To the here and now.
To the great concerto that has been composed for me.

The swells of thunder.
The crashes of lightening.
The chimes of rain.

Who can ever hope to compare?

We are insignificant, us musicians, in comparison to the natural instruments of nature.

To the sounds of the storm.

The world around me is ever changing. The rain drenches all but I scarcely notice for my attention is not on the wetness of my clothing, nor the darkness of the night. No, my focus is solely on the great percussion players of the sky. The bass drum and timpani of the gentle roles fight to beat the sudden crashes of the cymbals of lightening and the fierce patter of the rain.

I stand in the middle of the gently rolling hills of Eastern Nebraska, drenched to the bone.

I stand in awe.

God is the maestro.

Nature is the orchestra.

And I am the audience.