Usually I forget how strange it is that each person inhabits a squishy blood-and-guts-and-spirit-infused bag of skin. I’m usually quite happy in my fluid-filled home, but every once in a while it strikes me that my body, while part of me, has quite a mind of its own, and it’s an experience to slow down and savor (or grit your teeth through) a physical experience.
A couple days ago I sat on our front stoop after saying goodbye to Zachary, sitting on the concrete with my bare feet planted on the steps next to my potted marigold. Since our townhouse stand on top of a hill, I have a good view of the sky through the telephone wires, and I watched a storm roll in. Chalk-white cumulus clouds roiled upwards, stark against the gray clouds pushing them toward my corner of the world. The warm air swirled and gusted around my bare legs. I felt eddies of cold air searching their way through the breeze as the light grew grayish-yellow and the smell of damp grass rose from the lawn. Thunder rumbled. Chimney swifts wheeled through the sky. At last, large sparse raindrops plopped down from the sky, flicking the white clover blossoms in the front yard. Drops splashed on my feet, beading up on my waxy skin.
I experienced this all with a sense of wonder. There is nothing unusual about a storm rolling in (especially this time of the year), but taking the time to slow down and experience things through my senses was almost trippy.
It reminded me of why I’m so glad we get new bodies in heaven— that bodies are something good and wonderful and part of being human, even in the life to come. Experiencing ordinary wonders with a body that doesn’t wear out or break down is going to be incredible.