Who is like You, Majestic in Holiness

I can't sleep. My face is stuffy, I'm still coughing and sneezing, and the world has erupted into sight, and sound, and power. Thunder forms a mighty chorus, counterpointed by the shush-shush of the falling rain, and the lightening turns the night blue-white, as it reflects through the sheets of water pouring from heavy clouds. The air itself crackles with the power of the storm.

How glad I am to have my snug little apartment, my glass of warm peach juice*, and yes, odd though it may sound, my doll and my blanket.

* Nothing beats warm peach juice with a sprinkle of clove for a sore throat. It's like drinking peach pie and the clove numbs the throat on the way down.