My five-year-old and I walked down our street, through the
hilly park, past the swings and sand box. My brown umbrella
with tiny flowers covered both our heads as tiny droplets
went pip-pip-pip. We were on our way to the pharmacy.
As we came out of the park, the dainty pip-pip-pip quickly
became plip-plop plip-plop as the rain came down faster and
harder. My daughter placed her hand inside my pocket.
"Mommy," she said, "are we gonna get there soon?"
"Sure," I said. "Just at the end of this street. See where
all those cars are turning?"
I tilted the umbrella upward and we both looked ahead at the
intersection. She saw the pharmacy on the corner. Suddenly, a
gust of wind swooped up my umbrella, tossing it behind our
heads. I grasped the handle and forced the umbrella back
down. I looked at my daughter. "Neat, huh?" I said. She
giggled.
The wind blew wildly now and the rain poured. We walked
slowly to keep our footage. "We're getting there," I told
her.
"But we can't see the pharmacy."
"That's true, but we're in the right direction."
"But we can't see it!" She was grinning.
"Very funny," I told her. "Want me to tilt the umbrella again
and get us wet?"
We trudged on, huddled close. Keeping the umbrella close to
our heads and tilting it downward, we could see only a few
paces ahead. There was a chance I'd walk into a lamp-post or
somebody.
As we marched on, pairs of feet came towards us. We saw big
black shoes, green boots, blue and white sneakers -- never
the knees, shoulders or faces; just feet inside of shoes. We
swerved to the right or left each time, never bumping noses
with anyone. Not once did I hit a lamp-post.
Many times I'd wanted to lift the umbrella so that I could
see more than a few paces ahead. Maybe something was coming
towards us, like an elephant. We were certainly getting close
to the pharmacy, but how close?
I indulged once. It was neither a loud noise nor a heavy
intuition that rocked my faith. It was just -- nothing. I
carefully tilted the umbrella upward. In front of me I saw
people -- walking in shoes that I would have seen in another
half minute. The sky was dark gray. The streets were wet. The
cars had their headlights on though it was morning. Further
on was the pharmacy. I squinted my eyes from the wind.
"Put it down, Mommy. I'm getting wet!"
"Yes, yes, of course. I'm sorry."
It was for nothing that I looked. It was for wind in the face
and rain in the eyes. Four paces ahead are enough for anyone
to get to the pharmacy. We did. And we made our way back
home. Sitting comfortably on the couch near the big window,
we watched the rain drizzling down.
Weeks later, one of my children asked, "Is somebody saying
mashiv horuach by mistake?" It was long after we had
stopped praying for rain, though you wouldn't know it. My
brown umbrella with tiny flowers remained hung by the coat
rack along with a large black umbrella and several child-size
umbrellas.
Finally, after Shavuos, I put the umbrellas in storage.
Standing on a chair to reach the high cabinet, I wondered how
much would happen during the next year before I took my
umbrellas out again -- how much laughter or tears; heartache
or joy; pain or pleasure; terror or peace. Would Moshiach be
here? Would I?
I placed the last umbrella in the cabinet. Four paces ahead
are enough for anybody.
