Postscript: A Chance of Rain

Postscript: A Chance of Rain
By Carrie Classon | Contributor | September 2025

I knew it was going to rain. I looked up the weather before heading out and there was a 94% chance of rain at 7 p.m., precisely the hour I planned to walk home.

“It’s going to rain,” I told my husband, Peter.

“Not till later,” he said. “Google says it’s not going to rain until 9 p.m.”

“Hmmm.”

I wondered if I should bring an umbrella. The sun was shining. It was hot. I had a mile and a half to walk, and I wasn’t really looking forward to carrying an umbrella. Maybe a wide-brimmed sun hat would do the trick.

I reached up into the coat closet and selected a brilliant blue sun hat I’d forgotten all about. It was given to me by my now deceased sister-in-law Shelley, who had exquisite taste. Perfect.

I headed out and there wasn’t a cloud in sight. I was going to a church that holds meditation once a week. While I find it hard to maintain concentration for a full hour on my own, something about being in a darkened room with stone walls and burning candles and a few other folks in prayer and meditation keeps me focused. I sat down in my usual place. It was very peaceful. I was glad I came.

I need to do these things, I’ve discovered. I’ve always battled a bit of anxiety, long before I had a name for it. Sometimes it’s like the sound of the refrigerator running – so constant and persistent that I don’t notice it until it shuts off. “Oh. I’ve been anxious,” I’ll realize. Now I look for ways to give my refrigerator brain a break, and meditation is one of the better ones.
The hour passed. I opened my eyes. Even though the chapel is lit only by candles and the windows are stained glass, it still seemed darker than it should be. Then I heard a crash of thunder. I looked at my watch: 7:00 exactly.

I walked to the door. A curtain of rain fell: a steady downpour, with no sign of weakening.

“Hmmm.”

I could have called Peter. He would have scooped me up in the car. I could have called an Uber if I was really feeling flush. I might even have waited near the door and asked a fellow meditator if they were driving in my direction.

Instead, I stepped out into the rain.

My first thought was how heavy and cold it was. But that lasted only a minute because, within that time, I was as wet as a person could be, except for the top of my head and the part of my face shielded by my hat. I started walking quickly, but that accomplished nothing. I had a mile and a half to go.

I realized the rain wasn’t that cold, once I was entirely wet, and that I had two choices: fight the rain and lose or decide to love the rain. Without giving it a lot of thought, I chose the latter and was filled with surprising joy.

I laughed, sang and splashed in puddles as I made my way home. Stepping into my house at last, I removed my hat and discovered my hair had turned blue. I laughed again.

And I wondered why it had been so long since I’d walked in the rain.

Till next time.

Postscript: Internet arguments and pictures of flowers (August 2025)
Postscript: Someone else’s garden (July 2025)
Postscript: Reflections on marshmallows and delayed enjoyment (June 2025)
Postscript: Reflections on tornados and perpetual optimism (May 2025)
Postscript: Levitating cats, learned helplessness, and 10 years of marriage (April 2025)
Postscript: Circling friendships and my 100-year-old grandmother (March 2025)
Postscript: My car wash dress and the fine tradition of friendly teasing (February 2025)
Postscript: Little luxuries and being unreasonable (January 2025)

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