RAIN, AND THE ROADS LESS TRAVELLED
Adelaide, my home town, is the capital city of the driest state in the driest continent on earth (besides Antarctica). Well, that’s what we were taught in school. Our average yearly rainfall is 500mm per year. Some years can be much, much less.
So, when my husband texted last Wednesday that his umbrella had been destroyed by some random mini-cyclone that afternoon, and he feared a drenching from the rain, I put aside my writing the next instalment of the T-Team, and decided to drive into town to pick him up.
The roads glistened with lights reflected by the rain-soaked bitumen. My car tyres swished along Marion road, then Anzac Highway towards the city. My husband with his broken umbrella and inadequate wet-weather gear, would be waiting under the SA Water alcove.
As I crawled across the slippery made-in-China tiles on Victoria Square, I saw the SA Water sign and soon spotted my husband. A parking space in front of the alcove facilitated a quick and comfortable transfer of husband to car without too much rain to soak him. Actually, the rain had eased to a fine spatter after heavy, almost horizontal drops for most of the afternoon. I guess the random mini-cyclone had passed.
With me still driving, we began the journey back home down Anzac Highway. At Leader Street, the traffic slowed to snail’s pace. Cars ahead of us darted around the corner taking a detour.
‘Must be an accident,’ I muttered and then followed the cars around the corner.
‘There’s flooding,’ he who was more observant than me, said.
‘Flooding?’ Wasn’t raining that much, I thought. Our rain-gauge at home only registered 6mm. Flooding? Nah!
Then I saw it. In a side-street, a lake had formed, gentle waves lapped the gutters. ‘You’re right, it’s flooding. Just as well I turned.’
‘Must be Brownhill Creek that’s flooded,’ said he who knows his geography of Adelaide and reminds me of it whenever we go for a weekend drive.
Sure enough, the seven o’clock news on the radio confirmed what we were currently experiencing. Adelaide had been inundated with flooding. Rain had saturated the hills, causing the dams and creeks to overflow and thus flood the streets on the Adelaide plains.
‘Follow that car,’ said my navigator husband.
I took another detour, unsure where we were going and whether we’d avoid the flooded streets.
We turned onto East Terrace.
‘It’s like an adventure.’ My husband smiled. A first for him. Usually when the unexpected happens, he panics. ‘I wonder where this street goes?’
‘Winston Avenue,’ I read the sign. We passed Cross Road with more traffic congestion and the road water-logged. Then we sailed along a reasonably dry Winston Avenue to Daws Road.
Soon, after a non-eventful remainder of a trip, we arrived home.
Life is like a road-trip, long or short, from where we start to our destination. Sometimes, someone greater than ourselves, I believe God, guides us on the “roads less travelled” for our safety, and at times, and more often, our growth in becoming all He has planned for us to be. It’s all about choice, and choosing to follow the prompts.
I’ve spent the weekend on a women’s’ camp at Victor Harbour. On our final assignment, we had time to ourselves, spending time with God.
I took opportunity to walk to the beach. On the way, I discovered a lagoon. (See featured photo.) I continued on the path to the beach. Then I stopped, and reflected. Why go the way of all the others? I’d seen the beach. So I reversed, and took the path along the lagoon.
I walked on the boardwalk. I was the only one. Alone. With God.
The lagoon rested in calmness, no wind, no ripples disturbing its peace. I took a few photos with my phone-camera, the reflection like a mirror.
Time to sit and reflect. A seat would’ve been just the thing. But, no seat. Only the boardwalk. I retraced my steps and then headed for the beach.
Many of the ladies perched themselves in spots under twisted trees, bracing the wind, grappling flapping papers, and the wind-chill in their faces. Not for me. No spaces left.
Revisiting the lagoon, I marvelled how calm and still it was, when just over the dunes, the wind roared and waves crashed against the shore.
Then I returned to the campsite and the warmth of an empty prayer room.
We don’t need to follow the crowd. Be still. Listen. Watch the signs. Allow God to lead you on roads less travelled.
“The Lord is my shepherd, I shall lack nothing. He makes me lie down in green pastures, he leads me beside quiet waters.” — Psalm 23:1-2
© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2016
Photo: Lagoon Reflections — Victor Harbour © Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2016