Rain. It means different things to different living creatures. To some, it’s a gift. The cactus patiently waits, day after day, night after night, for rainfall. It misses its friend. No one else wants to touch him. But rain? Rain will kiss every inch of the cactus. And the cactus will thank the rain; it will love the rain. And it will wait for the rain to visit again someday.

To others, however, rain is a burden. Little Johnny and his friends wanted to play baseball at the park, but rain decided it would pour all day-- no! All week. So what do the boys do all week? Sulk. And when they see great flashes illuminate the dark sky and hear the rumbles of thunder above them, they groan and decide to play video games.

But what does the lonely girl in the back of the classroom think when she’s in class and rain is pattering away on the windows and the sky is colorless and depressed? She thinks it’s some kind of beauty, an enigma, even. How could anything ever be so magnificent and charming? No boy band or rock star can sing a better love melody than the rain. Every time the girl hears it, she feels something inside of her light up and lift her like a bird taking flight. It shakes her soul, delights her, spreads a wide smile across her face.

“It’s too bad about the rain, huh?” says the girl sitting in front of her.

Oh, that poor girl. She could never know what enchantment the rain could be. The one she adores, the one she prays every night will come to grace her the following day, week, month . . .

“Actually, I think it’s kind of nice,” replies the admirer while tapping her pen in the palm of her opposite hand.

“But it’s all dark and muddy and mucky outside,” explains the girl, frowning while taking psychology notes.

Obviously, their brains were not on the same wavelength, and nothing was going to change the patterns of either of them. One was jagged and zigzagged like an upset river, the other quite smooth and flowing like a quiet stream near a meadow. Nature was stubborn and unwilling to allow either girl to be convinced of the other’s argument.

The teacher gave them a suspicious glance -- they were too far in the back to hear -- and both girls kept quiet after that. However, their polar opposite brains were not focusing on the lesson that day. They were in fact dwelling on rain, that silent glory of the Earth. One girl would be disgusted at the end of the day because she had to walk home and her new shoes were sopping wet. The other? She was the one splashing in puddles like a small child. When she got home from school, she would feel the cold water on her feet, soaking through her shoes and into her socks, and she would just smile. Yes, both girls imagined the end of their day with either contempt or reverence.

But is the rain really as beautiful as the girl initially thought? The girl had to wonder . . . Is it just the beauty of individuality, of pure distinction of certain expectations regarding the element, that the girl finds truly and undoubtedly stunning?

One last stolen glimpse toward the windows, in less than a heartbeat, she knew her mind was made up. It was a circle; it always came around and brought her back to this point. It didn’t matter, because in the end, the process was never-ending, and so was her love of pouring rain.