The Day Lightning Taught Us

The old black lab lay beside me on the porch, his graying muzzle resting on my worn slipper. Just like his grandfather had done sixty years ago, on that summer afternoon when I learned that wisdom often arrives unannounced.

I was twelve then, standing at the edge of the swimming pool where my father had just finished filling it with water from the garden hose. The family dog — Buster, a golden retriever with more enthusiasm than sense — had already discovered his aquatic calling that morning, splashing into the shallow end with joyous abandon. My mother watched from the kitchen window, probably worrying about the electricity bill, probably thinking we should have waited until evening.

Then came the storm. Not gradually, but all at once — the sky turned the color of old bruises, and lightning cracked across the horizon like the very heavens were splitting open.

'Everyone out of the pool!' my father shouted, gathering us like protective wings. We sat on the porch, wrapped in towels, watching the rain turn the backyard into a mosaic of silver diamonds. Buster sat between us, shaking himself thoroughly and spraying us all with what remained of his pool adventure.

'You know,' my father said, 'storms are like life's difficult truths. They arrive whether you're ready or not.' He paused, watching lightning illuminate the oak tree. 'The trick isn't to avoid them. It's learning where to stand when they pass through.'

I didn't understand then, but I do now. At seventy-three, I've weathered plenty of storms — some literal, most figurative. I've lost people I loved, buried dreams I cherished, watched certainties dissolve like morning mist. But I learned to stand solid, to wait out the lightning, to let the waters rise and fall without losing myself in them.

Now, as another summer storm gathers overhead, I sit here with this new companion — another good dog who understands patience. The old pool is gone, replaced by a garden my daughter tends. But that lesson remains, rippling through decades like water seeking its level: wisdom isn't about avoiding the storm. It's about knowing who to hold close when the lightning comes.