“…Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
(Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven’s gate;
For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.”
(from Sonnet 29, by William Shakespeare)
I have realized, throughout my life, but only in increments, how very rich I am.
Perhaps an explanation is in order.
We wandered through a gentle drizzle—the Lovely Lady and I—up to the university’s performing arts center last night. It seems likely we’ll do that a few more times in the coming weeks, since we’ve foolishly agreed to sing with the community choir again this school year.
There was no expectation of embarrassment for either of us. We’re not star vocalists, but more what you might call utility singers, covering our parts reasonably on pitch and mostly in rhythm. Mostly.
Still, I would be embarrassed before the evening’s end. Probably not for the reason you’d expect.
It was our first rehearsal, so a good bit of time was taken up with what I’d call minutiae. Expectations for attendance and the absence of cell phones were discussed, along with event dates and dress codes. And, we introduced ourselves to each other. That’s always a little unnerving. Did I say too much? Too little? Am I really that weird?
Then, as our esteemed conductor passed out the first piece of music, I was surprised to see a title I had requested several months ago. It’s a song with words long familiar from the old hymnals to many of us, but with a gorgeous, new tune. Fleshed out with beautiful harmonies in every vocal part, it may be one of my favorite choral pieces. For now, anyway.
The conductor, after all the choir members had their parts in hand, spoke in a quiet voice.
“Paul, before we sing, would you read the text for us?”
I never expected that. But it wasn’t as if he had asked me to sing a solo. I didn’t think I could be embarrassed just reading words from the page.
The new version of the song is copyrighted, so I’ve rendered a few of the more archaic (public domain) words here. It won’t matter.
“O Joy that seekest me through pain,
I cannot close my heart to thee;
I trace the rainbow through the rain
And feel the promise is not vain
That morn shall tearless be.”
(from O Love That Wilt Not Let Me Go, by George Matheson)
These are only a few of the words I read from the text, but they are the ones that embarrassed me. You see, I have a hard time speaking when the emotion clamps my throat closed and threatens to send tears rolling. I struggled, but read on and finished the text.
The Lovely Lady told me later that I recovered handily, but I’m sure she says things just to make me feel better sometimes. It usually works, too.
Less than a week ago, in the heat of a summer’s eve, a little thunderstorm blew up outside our door. We were happy to have the rain. The drops poured down for a few minutes, during which our grandson stood at the door with his Grandma and smiled at the commotion. As grandparents are wont to do, we smiled at him as much as at the commotion.
Moments later, I noticed the sun shining through the clouds, even though the rain continued to pepper down.
“There’ll be a rainbow,” I exclaimed, heading for the back door with my camera.
The Lovely Lady, ever the practical one, suggested that I’d get wet.
Don’t tell her, but I didn’t. Get wet, that is. Opening the door on the east side of my shop, I stood inside and peered out through the raindrops.
Barely, just barely, I saw it. Almost like someone was drawing merely the faintest outline of a faded-out rainbow that reached down and touched the ground in the Weaver’s field behind us, I could just make it out.
Waiting only a minute or two more, I no longer had to trace it through the rain, but could see it plainly. Even though the fat drops continued to pelt down, the rainbow stood out in vivid glory, its bottom clearly touching the ground just beyond the barbed wire fence.
I snapped a pic or two, one of which is posted with these words, sharing it online for my friends to enjoy. One of my buddies wittily asked the question:
“Well, don’t keep us in suspense. How much money did you rake in?”
He wasn’t the only one to mention, facetiously, the storied pot of gold we think about when we see a rainbow’s end. I laughed it off, as did he (and others).
But, after last night’s reading of that verse, I’m not laughing about it.
I wonder if we have any idea how very rich we are. We don’t need an imaginary pot of money at the elusive end of a tenuous prism in the sky to count, either. Real wealth isn’t counted in dollars and cents—or pesos and centavos—or pounds and pence.
We have a Creator, a Savior, who is concerned enough about our well-being that He puts rainbows in the sky to help us conquer our fear of the storm. And He tells us in the Psalms that He keeps a ledger of our tears. Then He promises there is coming a morning when every tear will be wiped away, every fear conquered, and every trial gone.
He cares when the throat tightens and the liquid escapes from the lacrimal glands, through the ducts, and down our faces. It matters.
To Him, the King of Creation, it matters.
He sends rainbows. Without the pots of gold, but with infinitely more wealth for us to gather in. We have to be ready to grab hold of it, though.
Sometimes, the rainbows are not up in the sky, either, but simply reminders in our hearts that He is walking beside us. Every step of the way, He walks with us.
He cares. About our spiritual state. About our emotional state. About our families and our friends. About the tears we shed.
He cares. About you. About me.
I figure that’s the real wealth.
And, I wouldn’t trade that for anything.
“I have placed my rainbow in the clouds. It is the sign of my covenant with you and with all the earth.”
(Genesis 9:13, NLT)
© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2025. All Rights Reserved.
