The rain in spain falls mostly on my Laudry.

I can forgive the rain for drenching my clothes because of the beautiful way it smells.

I can forgive it for making me all wet as I take the sorted, hand-compacted, smelly, trash out to our Spainish dumpster. But only because it rains here the same is does in Provo; the water doesn't mind that it's falling on Spaniards. It doesn't mind that it falls on cobble stone rather than on the white cement to which I am accustomed.

People act pretty much the same when rains falls on their heads.

The do that little shuffle-run with their coats and t-shirts pulled all up over their giddy smiles.


If they're busy, they pretend that the rain doesn't bring that little kid who lives in the buisness suit outside to play. The busy ones resist the urge to ruin expensive leather stomping in puddles.

And when I'm taking out the trash, the rain makes me look up. I stare into the rain clouds gathered above the earth. The rain taps me on the shoulder and reminds me that people are not as different as we pretend to be; he reminds me that the rainclouds are much bigger than I am. He wets my lips and whispers "we live live in the arms of a benevolent god."