A Storm’s Gift Of Beauty

By: Amanda Winter Moore

North Alabama has a history of violent weather systems that are often unpredictable, deadly, and destructive. Today’s technology allows us advance notice of when these storms are approaching; however, even with proper planning and preparation, the knowledge that severe weather conditions are expected in the forecast is very likely to produce some amount of fear and anxiety in most of us. It’s no coincidence that I chose to write about finding beauty after a storm on a day that meteorologists have referred to as a “First Alert Weather Day.”

Today is Easter Sunday, and instead of watching my children hunt Easter eggs outside in our yard, I’m sitting at a makeshift table in our home’s basement listening to a local meteorologist as he talks in circles…“some kind of severe weather, we just don’t know what or when.” In the fifteen minutes that I listened to him, he didn’t deliver much useful information beyond that we should expect severe weather this afternoon and evening. Nevertheless, my family and I are prepared for the worst while hoping for the best. (Side note: My youngest child wants to be a meteorologist when she grows up. I just made her promise that she’ll do better than this some day when she’s delivering a live weather report.) Make no mistake, I’m thankful for meteorologists and the work they do. They put in long hours and often receive criticism for being unable to accurately predict something as totally unpredictable as the weather. It is a job that I certainly would not want to do.

While I don’t particularly relish the idea of a storm, I know that great beauty can be found in the aftermath of one. Recently, I was enjoying an early morning run through the historic district in downtown Athens. The night before, heavy rain and strong winds had moved through the area. I had watched through the window as tree limbs were whipped wildly about and listened as rain pelted the roof. Morning dawned the following day and the sun shone beautifully in a sky that was the bluest of blues. I had started my run at Big Spring Park and headed east into the older section of the city cemetery. I hadn’t gone very far before I was compelled to stop so that I could take in the sights around me. There was a gentle breeze blowing, and flags that had been placed on the graves of our fallen servicemembers moved ever so slightly, waving to me as I walked by. Raindrops sparkled on the grass as if glistening pieces of confetti had fallen from the sky the night before. Birds chirped overhead. Squirrels chased each other around the headstones. The cemetery, inherently filled with death, was very much alive that morning.

Most of the city’s oldest homes have well-manicured lawns and flowering plants and trees in some of the prettiest shades of pink and purple that I’ve ever seen. The previous night’s wind had caused three of these flowering trees to beautifully sprinkle their pink petals onto the sidewalk below them. I half-expected to look farther down the sidewalk and see an altar and a bridal party awaiting me. I also half-expected the homeowners to call the cops on the woman (yours truly) loitering on the sidewalk, walking back and forth in front of their home and taking pictures from all angles. Either I went unseen or they were feeling gracious, because I managed to spend several uninterrupted minutes admiring the gift that the previous night’s storm had left for me on the sidewalk that morning.

I think it’s fair to say that we are all weathering some sort of a storm these days. The health crisis that the world is facing and the steps that we are taking to help “flatten the curve” have impacted each of us. During times such as these, it’s easy to get so caught up in the storm that we lose sight of the beauty that lies ahead after the storm passes. We must remind ourselves to remain patient while the storm is upon us. It will pass, and when it does, there will be new beauty in its wake. Consider it a gift, the storm’s way of rewarding us for enduring life’s less-than-pleasant times.
By:Amanda Winter Moore