I remember almost like it was yesterday, though it's been probably 3 or 4 years now. I remember sitting in my bed as the thunder rolled behind me outside, remember hearing the pitter-patter of rain drops turning into the torrential downpour that flooded our meager little garden. Sitting in my bed, working on my math homework, I never would have thought that the memories forged that night would become so precious to me, or that I'd remember long after I thought I'd forgotten.

I remember him running up the stairs, shouting, "Guys, guys, this is amazing! You have to come look! Right now! Take a break from whatever you're doing, and come watch! Who knows when you'll be able to again!" And thank God I did. I thank God that I put down my pencil, piled my books on the corner of my bed, and followed him back downstairs while he told us about how he had watched it start, had heard the same patter of rain drops, and knew what was coming. It was like Christmas for him, the rain, and looking at his face, I saw sheer unadulterated elation at the mere prospect of a thunderstorm.

When we got downstairs he charged out the door, flipping off the porch light as he did so. At that time we had lawn chairs on the porch, green- and white-striped adult-sized chairs that we loved. He and Mom got the chairs, Ted and I got the door mat. I remember the cool breeze as it blew onto the porch, a breeze only because the porch is semi-protected from any gale-force winds. It wasn't humid, it wasn't cold, it was perfect. The storm had driven away any bugs that might have bothered us, and it was simply perfect.

We sat on the porch, staring, staring out into the driving rains that pelted the earth. The trees were groaning and leaning slightly in the storm, but on our oh-so-comfy porch, it was peaceful. Peaceful watching the storm raging around us, watching the immense power it commanded. We rarely spoke on nights like this; words were not necessary, and would only have disturbed the silent understanding. We were observers of the magic, not participants. Each was left to his or her own thoughts, left to go where his or her mind wandered. I wonder now what he thought of as he sat there in his chair, right leg crossed over his left, arms resting on the sides, a slight smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

He loved thunderstorms, loved watching the rain saturating the earth. And he loved for us to watch with him. He didn't care if we talked, though we rarely did; sometimes we had some of the deepest conversations on that porch, sometimes we merely talked about our days. He loved to sit there in that old green- and white-striped lawn chair with his family around him, watching the rain.

Happy Birthday, Daddy.
Say hi to Jesus for me.