Angry purple clouds rose over the trees in the back yard. The weather radar indicated a thunderstorm was bearing down on us. Should I chance a run? My training schedule called for a three-miler today. I might just get it in.
"You won't melt," sneered Mrs. Avdat. So I went. When the first frigid downdraft hit, driving away the oppressive heat and humidity, I was glad to be out there. But when limbs started flying through the air, and thunder started peeling, I began to worry.
Martin Luther got caught in a thunderstorm, and he was so scared he made a deal with Saint Anne: "Save me, and I'll become a monk. I swear!"
So I prayed, "Lord, get me home before the storm hits in earnest, lest I wind up promising you something stoopid."
And the Lord had mercy on me.
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