Reflecting on memory

There’s a poetic word for those of us who find solace in rainy days—pluviophile. It originates from Latin pluvia, meaning ‘rain’, and Greek philos, meaning ‘beloved’ or ‘dear’.

I’ve always felt the word pluviophile speaks to something deeper than preference; it’s a spiritual kinship. Rain has always meant more than just weather to me; it’s a tapestry of memory, renewal, longing, and grace. I grew up on a tropical island where the year was divided into just two seasons—wet and dry. I found myself completely drawn to the rainy season. There’s comfort in reading and writing as the rain falls, like an awaited answer to prayer. It wraps my thoughts in its gentle or sometimes pulsing rhythm.

“O Rain Fall” was written out of seasons of dryness surrounding me. These dry periods were also deeply ingrained in my soul. The sky seemed to suck out the air on the island. My soul ached for relief. I grew tired of the pain inflicted by someone I loved. It was an uncle who, ironically, was the very person who shared the island’s stories with us. He made us laugh. He gave us a sense of wonder about the trees, birds, and animals that surrounded our home.

He was a constant presence. He was there when my mother was at work. He watched over us both in the bright light of day and the quiet darkness of night. Yet, behind the warmth of his stories and lessons about island living lay a shadow. I carried this shadow deep within me. A betrayal fractured my trust and marked my childhood in ways that words can barely touch.

I don’t just welcome rain as water, but as a living presence, a gentle power, a balm for healing. They are odes to God’s mercy and to the quiet joy that comes when the clouds finally break.

Also, I wrote, “O Rain Fall,” which I almost feel like a plea for rain. This occurred during a period when the government had warned of a possible drought. They told everyone to save water. Days went by with no rain, and the taps for free water barely trickled. Carrying water as a young girl? I hated it. Climbing hills with buckets on my head or in each hand was brutal. Most of the time, we had to bring back enough water to fill a large metal drum or barrel. Trust me, it was no easy job.

Not only did I love the rain, but I was also fascinated by the moon and stars. I observed how the moon changed from little slivers to a big, full circle. I’d call them “the pies in the sky,” and imagine collecting stars to make up my own constellation. Long before I knew there was a word for the different shapes of stars, I had already found my own. It trailed me everywhere, a silent companion. I would seek it out deliberately; there it was: the question mark.

When I was a child, my eyes were constantly looking to the sky. I’d watch the sun rise on the horizon and follow it all the way until it set. “Before the Rain Comes” was how I pictured the feeling and sight of the rain on its way. I always loved staring out at the horizon; a word I picked up early on to describe things like mountain tops or where the sun rises and sets at the edge of the ocean. From a distance, I watch as everything that went beyond the horizon just fell into nothingness.

The word horizon was also a popular term among fishermen. They’d look at the clouds. This helped them decide if the sea was full of fish. It also helped them decide if it was even worth heading out. The elders read the clouds like meteorologists, but without any fancy gadgets—they just knew.

O Rain Fall

O rain fall—

like you’ve never fallen before,

like the earth has been waiting,

holding its breath.

O rain fall—

let our tears mingle with your many waters,

let the dry bones of the mountains drink deeply,

let the valleys swell beneath your generosity.

O rain fall—

open the sky and spill yourself wide,

remind us that beyond our small minds,

you move with a power we cannot hold,

a gift that fulfills desires older than time.

Without you, we shrink into dust, searching,

longing for the strength only you can bring.

Only with you can we learn to live, to hope, to save.

O rain fall—

your time does not answer to ours,

you are supreme,

burst those heavy clouds and come.

Now, let the rain fall,

and let our tears flow free with your many waters.

---

Before the Rain Comes

A silver lining stretched across the calm sea,

The setting sun reflected like a mirror

On patches of deep blue water.

Clouds drifted like pale phantoms, their expressions faint,

While lazy ships sailed cautiously into the harbor—

No hustle, no bustle.

In the distance, fishermen’s small heads appeared

Returning to port because the fish had ceased to fly.

A single glance revealed that the palm trees

No longer swayed gently.

The ships were gone;

The fishermen were home.

Beyond the dull horizon,

Beyond the pale sky and grey sea,

Clouds descended like un-scrubbed aluminum.

Once again, the rain’s force shattered the sea’s calm,

Moving swiftly, drenching the entire island in one colossal coat.

The only music was the cacophony of objects

Beaten by relentless drops.

And once again,

Eyes closed to sleep.

jjf’2025

Time for reflection

When the rain begins to fall, let it be a gentle reminder of God’s mercy. Embrace this quiet moment as a time for your soul to find rest and renewal. As I write these words, my prayers are with you, whoever you may be, that you may find peace and healing in this moment.

Let each drop baptize you with grace, a call to pause and listen. Write in that quiet. Write from the ache, the hope, the remembering. Rain softens the soil and the soul. It prepares us to receive, to heal, to speak.

Your words may be the very balm someone else needs. Let the rain be your invitation to pour out what’s been held in, and trust that even in the storm, something sacred is being restored.

Thanks for reading! jjf 😊