by Rev. Eric Folkerth
I rode the edge of a storm around the lake last night.
And it was wonderful.
I used to do this at times some years ago. But in the midst of it, it suddenly struck me that —for all sorts of reasons— I probably hadn’t done this since before my father died. And then I thought, “My Lord, that’s almost a decade…”
But also, since we’re in East Dallas again close to the lake, if it looks like a storm, I just don’t go. When we lived out north —when every ride down to the lake and back was a multi-hour ordeal up and down the creek trail— I would routinely get caught out with springtime Texas supercells that pop up out of nowhere.
I can’t tell you what a joy it was to experience all of this again. I know - some of you think that’s crazy. I can’t help it. There’s nothing more magical to me than a watching a Texas supercell….and especially being out in it.
It wasn’t supposed to rain. (That’s why I went out!) But, just as I was getting to the north turn of the lake, I felt a few drops on my legs. I still didn’t believe it because….well, it wasn’t supposed to rain.
But by the time I’d made the turn south, crossing back under Mockingbird, I could see the looming clouds over on the southwest side…in a very typical position this time of year. (southwest to northeast…)
A quick check of “MyRadar” showed me what my eyes had already told me….a small, but mighty cell popping up out of nowhere over downtown and quickly heading right at me.
Given that I’ve been around the lake about a thousand times, I know every possible stopping place by heart and exactly how long I can wait before seeking shelter. It’s a game of cat-and-mouse with the clouds.
The winds picked up.
The waves lapped the shore.
Just about everybody who could scurried for their cars.
And by the time I got to Big Thicket, I had just enough time to pee before hunkering down under the small porch.
A young couple joined me. They told me their names, but I’ve already forgotten them.
The rain started coming down in sheets as the heart of the cell moved across us. I saw three young women who obviously got caught scrambling to figure out where to go. They turned one way and then another. They were in street clothes, soaked to the bone.
And although they were probably 300 feet away, I could still hear their shrieks of laughter and surprise wafting over the steady patting vibrations of the hardest part of the storm.
I thought to myself, “RIGHT NOW those three are making a memory they will look back on for the rest of their lives…”
And then the quick thought, “Wait…so am I…”
Sure, I’ve done this before. Maybe a half dozen times over twenty years. Over time you learn to pay attention to the sky, the land, to nature itself…
You pay attention to the waves. You notice how heavy the rain is, or is not. You get to know, generally, how quickly these cells move. You measure the direction of the wind. You pay attention to the light.
You’re no longer separate from nature but a participant in forces that are far more vast than your powers.
Which is a long way of saying: you become ONE with your surroundings.
And…IT IS MAGICAL.
As I said, it’s probably happened to me a half dozen times over the years.
And every time is the same.
And every time is unique, and wonderful, and gives me a powerful sense of being connected to the Earth itself, and everything around me.
We do the same thing down at Kerrville Folk Festival (which is coming up soon…) Oftentimes during those eighteen days, instead of hiding in our tents or cowering in our cars, we greet these kinds of small Texas supercells under 40-foot long outdoor camping canopies.
We break out the Irish Whiskey, and even guitars, and become ONE with the storm. This is sometimes 20 or more folks hunkered down in the midst of the lightning, thunder and downpour…but also never feeling more alive.
On one such night, I recall folk legend Jack Hardy, between sips of his whiskey, looking up at a cell that had just passed by. (It looked very much like this picture I have posted here of last night.) Suddenly there was a slight tail wind that blew, for just a second, in the opposite direction.
“It’s comin’ back!” Jack shrieked.
“It’s comin’ back!!!”
Although he was a Kerrville institution, he was also a Greenwich Village native. Jack was unfamiliar with how these cells worked.
“No, Jack,” I assured him, “I promise it’s not coming back…”
That’s the gift of being well acquainted with Texas weather and knowing how to be ONE with it.
Aside trivia that comes to me just now: Did you know Dallas and Seattle have almost the same amount of rain each year? It’s true!
But somehow, since they get a little every day, they’re the town everybody associates with rain. Ours here plummets from the sky in huge rivers and out of these majestic and towering clouds that can truly take your breath away, or cause you to admire, or fear. (It’s our choice…)
On Sunday, we will hear Jesus’ prayer for his Disciples. And this storm has me thinking about that too. Because Jesus is ALSO praying for the oneness and unity of all things. It sounds surprisingly like John Lennon, in “I Am The Walrus.”
“The glory which You have given Me I have given to them, that they may be one, just as We are one; I in them and You in Me…”
Lennon’s vision was psychedelically inspired.
My vision of oneness last night came to me because of a storm.
But Jesus’ prayer reminds us that, if there really is a God worth worshiping, adoring…standing in awe of…then God must also be moving and through all things in all these moments.
Jesus and the Father are one.
But so is God and all of us.
And so are all of us, together.
We United Methodists love the phrase “Connection,” and on Sunday I’ll share a beautiful story of how our new global connection —our oneness— was made manifest during General Conference. It’s worth hearing, so plan to be with us!
Like me on the bike last night, the more we are paying attention —looking for connection, and oneness—the more we are likely to see it. That’s the literal “payoff” of any “spiritual practice.” Spiritual practice results in being able to see the connections, more and more….understanding our small place in this vast world…and finding powerful gratitude for life itself.
And so, as the storm started letting up, I assured the young couple that their path to the north would be fine…the clouds were passing more quickly that direction.
I was, however, headed south. And for those first few miles down the east side of the lake, the edge of the supercell loomed just in front of me. It was truly awe inspiring.
At first, the winds picked up, and small whitecaps lashed the shore, right around the Bath House.
Moments later, the wind calmed, as the storm moved on and darkness fell.
Lightning bugs rose out of the trash trees and bushes along the shore —hundreds of them— like Christmas lights in the leaves.
Bullfrogs started up their nightly groans like gas chain saws sputtering to life after a long winter.
By the time I slipped quietly past the spillway and up on to the dam, I was completely alone. I can’t remember the last time I was alone up there.
It was WONDERFUL.
Thunderless lightning still flashed in the clouds, now a half hour east. I snapped this short video.
