We had thunderstorms roll through this afternoon as a cold front swooped in like a blustery blanket accompanied with sheets of rain. I made an event of it, turning out the lights, opening the shades, and planting myself in front of the kitchen window. It didn’t always use to be this way.

One of the more traumatic memories of my childhood involved a thunderstorm. I was probably three, and my dad was grilling some meat—chicken, I believe—preparing dinner one evening. As I recall it, this was the most blinding lightning display I had witnessed, the most violent thunder symphony I had ever experienced. I was scared, growing more terrified with each nearly deafening clap of thunder. Yet my dad was committed to attending the grill on the deck.

I don’t remember how it came to pass. My dad hoisted me up on his shoulders after my declining to want to venture out into the storm with my saturated father. Queue full-on terror as my dad walked around the deck, lightning flashing, thunder cracking. I screamed and screamed, pleading for him to let me live and take me back inside. He was trying to convince me that we were having fun—joking and laughing.

After maybe a couple of minutes, my dad got the hint that perhaps his plan to desensitize me to the lightning and thunder would not succeed. He helped me descend his shoulders, and I retreated into the safety of a dry towel and my mom’s soothing.

It was an incredibly impactful event. I used to wake up screaming for my parents to save me when I found myself surprised by a late-night or early-morning thunderstorm at least until the age of thirteen. Thirteen, I kid you not. That last time, my parents told me I could go to their room if I needed them and was scared—facepalm. Halting. Terror.

My mom tried to make it better, telling me that the thunder was the angels bowling—yes, I got that explanation too. I would pray that those overzealous angels would bowl worse and not get any strikes. Clearly, those prayers weren’t answered. The angels were jerks, I rationalized. Or they were that good at bowling.

Truthfully, I have no idea when the switch flipped. I love thunderstorms now. Have for some time. Don’t get me wrong, I still have this three-year-old kid inside of me who needs a little soothing when the thunder gets loud enough, or that first loud clap of thunder breaks the rhythm of the rain, surprising me.

I’m trying to figure out why I knew I had to write about this. I think that at this stage of my journey, especially regarding faith and spirituality, thunderstorms are one of the ways where my self-importance takes a backseat. I am simply—ironically—in childlike awe, enamored.

Maybe spirituality’s why these words were so crucial for me to type into reality. Experiencing God—whatever you want to call the divine or that which is bigger than us—has been taking on a much different form over the past several months. Thunderstorms, to me, are now better than the most convicting, moving sermon I can recall.

At the end of nature’s sermon, if you will, I’m not left feeling manipulated, used, or downright icky. There is no guilt when the storm passes, just magnificence and the subtle, intricate beauty of the clouds’ myriad greys.

What takes away your breath? What stops you in your tracks, demanding your full attention? Where do you find astonishment and awe these days? Soak up those moments. Be as present to them as you can. For the moments you experience captivation or whatever you wish to call it, let that be everything. That is enough.