There was a time when thunder interrupted conversations.
People stopped walking.
Children looked up.
Even those with no answers felt that something larger than themselves had just passed overhead.
Now our first instinct is different.
We check the weather app.
Count the minutes until the rain ends.
Close the window.
Continue scrolling.
Nothing about the sky became less extraordinary.
Our attention simply found louder distractions.
The older I get, the more I wonder if familiarity is one of life's quietest thieves.
Maybe that's why wonder feels so rare today.
Not because miracles disappeared.
Because routine slowly disguised them as ordinary.
The sky still arrives every morning without asking for applause.
Clouds still travel impossible distances carrying rain for places they've never seen.
Thunder still reminds us that power doesn't need permission to be heard.
And the heaviest clouds, the ones that frighten us most, are often the ones carrying the most rain.
Fear and mercy travel in the same cloud. They were never separate.
Lightning is what we notice first. The danger. The crack that makes us flinch.
But the same cloud that carries lightning is the one that carries rain.
Then it opens, and what falls is not punishment. It is relief.
Maybe that's true of grief too.
The moment that darkens everything the fastest is sometimes the one about to give the most.
We call it a storm while it's happening.
We only call it mercy afterward.
Perhaps the world has been speaking all along.
The real question is whether we've become too busy to listen.
If this reflection helped you look up a little longer than yesterday...
I'd be honoured to continue this journey with you.
