Posted by on Oct 14, 2011 in Photographs, Sacred Nature | 0 comments

I’ve experienced rain often in my life, sometimes as a gentle shower, at other times with the force of a hurricane. Fifty years later, I still recall one particular storm with a touch of regret and yet . . . a bit of gratitude.

I wore, as my mother called it, my “going to church” suit, and it was getting ruined by the rain. We stood, my parents and I, paying our respects, as a family who lived in the same four-story Brownstone as us buried their eleven-year-old son.

He had been, and still is my best friend. I tried so hard to be a man that day, but I failed. Yet, no one knew I cried that day. The rain, that blessed rain, mixed with my tears and hid my fears.

~J.K. Ingersoll



Leave a Comment