During my childhood in Western Nebraska, rain was a blessing. We never seemed to get enough of it, so when it came, we soaked it up along with the parched fields. We prayed for gentle rains, but eagerly anticipated the next crack of lightning during thunderstorms. I reminisce about walking into the middle of our farmstead to watch clouds churning overhead… about scrambling through the hail to bring my horses into the safety of the barn… and sitting with them through the worst of it as the radio blared with tornado watches. I remember running through the rain with my friends, getting soaked to the bone… and then scolded by parents as we climbed into what was a dry and clean car. I remember the draws running, washing out a section of the road not a half mile from us. I think back to the dozens of times my family and I would rush through the house to close the right windows, careful to account for which direction the raindrops were falling. And as I sit here in my own apartment, so far away from all those memories, the patter of raindrops brings them back.