The clouds of COVID have been my teachers lately.
Every afternoon, in the typical Colorado-spring fashion, cumulous begin to form. Wisps turn into billows, white turns to dark gray. I see them creeping over the Rockies and warn my kids, “20 minutes until we need to go inside”.
Cumulonimbus are soon at my front door.
“It’s time. We need to go inside”.
We shelter from the lightning, the rain, the hail. Whatever the clouds have to bring, we are safe and hunkered down.
“Can we go back outside yet?” my kids yell amidst their Lego creations.
I peer out the kitchen window and search for an edge to the blanket of Gray. I don’t see one yet. We remain sequestered. It looks like the brick house will get a garden, or a lake. Maybe even a T-rex.
As the remnants of Legos get added, the kids get restless. I look again and this time see light rays breaking through.
“It will be over soon.”
The storm is breaking up. Billows turn back into wisps, gray gives way to white.
We venture outside again and eat dinner on the front porch. As we shoot hoops, day turns to dusk and now white turns to pink. I look up and I soak in the lesson: the most beautiful sunsets are painted upon storm clouds.