I wouldn't call it biblical rain.
There were, after all, no frogs falling from the sky.
But when I was ready to ride away from the Review Tower this afternoon, it was coming down hard.
Two sodden colleagues, John and Kip, came into the lobby from the back door looking as if they had been fetched up from the mouth of a great sea serpent. “At least you missed the hail,” said one.
I waited a few minutes and then set forth.
To bolster my spirits, I hummed a tune by Brother Claude Ely.
“Ain't no grave,” the Pentecostal pastor sang. “Gonna hold my body down.”