I love thunderstorms. I love the smell of rain, wind blowing on my face, flashing lightning, and the sound of rolling thunder and rain pounding on the roof. God’s glory and power shines through grand summer storms, and they always amaze me. And when the sun comes out, rainbows shine and God’s promises are brought again to our eyes and affirmed in our hearts.
There is something special here, something special about Africa. And that makes everything special, even the thunderstorms. So when we were hit by a mighty thunderstorm at a crusade in Thyolo, Malawi, it was my dream come true. We could see the dark clouds rolling in and the wind becoming serious during our afternoon rest. The scent of rain was in the air as I sat with a group of locals kids, and I couldn’t help but get excited. Motioning with my hands, I mimicked rain falling from the sky.
“Mvula,” they responded in unison, telling me the word in Chechewa with a smile. They proceeded to list off innumerable words in the common language of Malawi, covering facial features, body parts, animals and many other things, all of which I repeated and none of which I remembered. The whole time the storm hung in the air, turning the hot day overcast and misty, growing more and more powerful as it drew nearer. When the first fat raindrops fell, I started to smile. More and more fell and my language teachers scattered, giggling and grinning at each other as we sought shelter under roofs and overhangs. The storm hit hard, pouring onto the hard red dirt in a pounding rhythm.
I could hardly look away from the doorway, staring out at the rain. It was singing to me, and I just wanted to be surrounded by it. I couldn’t be an observer. So when Christy suggested dancing in the rain, I jumped at the chance (after making sure it wasn’t culturally inappropriate of course).
I felt like a little kid, and I loved it. The rain fell shockingly cold against my skin, soaking my hair and clothes in a matter of seconds. We ran, we danced, we spun in circles, stomping bare feet in the puddles stained red by clay, making my white skirt a comparable match over my leggings. Hair plastered to my face, skirt tied in a knot and dancing like a fool, I knew all of the locals were staring from their dry coverings, but I didn’t care. Suddenly I wanted to sing.
“Open the floodgates of heaven, let it rain, let it rain!” Emily had joined Christy and I in our freedom and we sang loud, competing with the sound of the storm. “Open the floodgates of heaven, let it rain, let it rain!” And I meant it. Every word. Christy beckoned to some of the kids to come, and some of the more adventurous girls joined us in dancing and spinning and shouting for joy. Then I found myself proclaiming it over them and over their homes and their land. “Open the floodgates of heaven, let it rain, let it rain!”
We continued to shout and dance, loving every second of it. When the girls started shivering in the cold rain, we hugged and giggled together, just to start dancing all over again. The joy of the Lord is my strength, my freedom, my deliverance and my song… Of whom shall I be afraid?
