Let the Rain Fall

Last night, my son and I were leaving our local Y. We stepped out under a wide, covered entry to see an angry grey sky that blew rain sideways. As I was doing a quick calculation of where I parked and if we should run or wait it out, I looked next to me to see a family of four — a mother with what looked like one-year-old twin boys, one on each hip — and a father gripping keys and tugging up his raincoat hood.

One baby was wailing and the other was squiggling wild trying to get down off his mama-perch. She was struggling to comfort one and wrangle the other. As I looked at them, these words tumbled out of her mouth to her husband, “Don’t leave me here with them. Don’t go. I just can’t right now.”

He, confused, reiterated to her he was just going to get the car. He’d be gone for a minute; he was helping. She looked at me with eyes that were either apologetic or searching for solidarity and said to both me and him, “I know you’re just going to get the car. But I can’t be here for even one minute like this. I’m pregnant,” she said now meeting my eyes. She said this for my benefit, not his. It was obvious he already knew. It was as if she needed me to understand that it was three attached to her and not just two, as if the two kids wouldn’t justify her request that her husband stay, but three would. As if she needed me to see the full weight of what she was carrying so I wouldn’t think her nuts. I wouldn’t have, I wanted to say.

She continued, “And they are just a lot right now,” nodding at each boy, “and I just can’t stand here with them alone I guess.”

I could see she was equally sure of how she felt and questioning how it sounded in that moment. Who can’t handle just one more minute? Who doesn’t want help in the rain? How do we go forward when our breaking point is in a storm, when the help we have doesn’t seem to be what we need most?

I nodded, our eyes locking for one brief second, and said, “I. totally. get. it.”

I would have maybe said more, maybe offered to stand with her, but my son decided the rain looked fun to run out into and had begun his skip into the street so I ran behind him, both of us moving as fast as we could with our eyes half open, avoiding the wind. We jumped into our car laughing and breathing hard. Phew. Made it.

As I buckled, I wondered what the solution was for the family, would he go get their car or not? Would they stay under the covered entry all night? I remembered myself in her shoes, all those times when braving an actual physical storm — alone — seemed like sweet solace, maybe even like peace, compared to the constant whirl of parenting.

I didn’t have to wonder long, because walking at a pace that seemed impossibly slow in the rain — the coat-less, hood-less, kid-less (well, besides the one inside), and eyes-wide-open mother moved past my window clutching her keys, hair blowing about, smiling.

“She’s gonna be OK,” I thought.

I found myself smiling silly as we pulled out. It felt like I should be fist pumping the air or chanting a victory song for her. Raindrops on her face were freedom for one glorious minute; they were the help she really needed. And she knew it. It was the smallest, best choice of the day perhaps.

She’s going to make it — like I know we all are, storm-braving mamas. Phew.

So let the rain fall.

– Meghan, Woman of a Certain Grace