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Wednesday, 6 June 2012

Scotch Mist

They call it Scotch Mist apparently. Which is a surprise, because usually it’s only foreigners who don’t know any better who refer to anything as Scotch rather than Scots. The drink that others refer to as Scotch is called whisky here, and they don’t sell Scotch tape in the UK (or at least I’ve not found it) but the same sort of product is called Sellotape. And the people are Scots, not Scotch.

Well. Scotch or Scots Mist. Whatever it’s called, it’s still a fine rain – fine in terms of the size of the drops and not an assessment of its goodness. In fact, it may be very good for the crops and so on – certainly it’s good for the slugs and snails – but it sure isn’t very good for the mood of the dog-walker.

Having declared publicly a few days ago that I don’t allow the weather to dictate my mood, I have to admit that this morning, with those little sprinkles blinding my forward view, I felt my spirits slump and that silly prayer rising to my lips – please bring out the sun! 

I realized I needed to think creatively about this, and the creativity came in the shape of realizing that very few places in this world have perfect weather. Some areas are so dry they have to ration their drinks of water. Some places bake in relentless heat. Some places are subjected to fierce winds or daily rainstorms or whatever. 

I wish that God had designed the earth so that we all enjoyed perfect weather. A bit of rain overnight while we’re asleep.  Every day dawning bright, blue sky all the way. Temps moderate, so that only occasionally is a light cardigan called for. 

But God didn’t ask me when he was laying it all out, and I know the variety of weathers facilitates a diversity of flora and fauna which make this the fascinating and glorious world in which we live. And I know that the Scotch mist waters the countryside so that we have the many shades of spring green which are so beautiful right now. I know that it fills the lochs and burns, swells the tatties and plumps the raspberries.

But we need the sun to sweeten those rasps. And maybe to sweeten me, too.

I’m sorry, Lord. I don’t mean to moan. Change my heart, so that I rejoice in the day I have been given, for the gift it is. And may I overflow with gratitude for the day, however it shapes up weather-wise. 

Because however it shapes up, it’s still more than I deserve.

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