The Father of the Rain

I listen to the crunch, crunch of my feet across the ground as I walk.  The land is bone dry.  The grass is brown; the leaves are brittle.  I feel the parched stalks break off beneath my weight.  They snap with each step.  An arid land.

My spirit feels that.

The farmers harvest on because the work must be done, but the fields are ripe for fire.  Fire that scorches and destroys hundreds of acres in minutes.  We watched it happen last week.  The conditions were favorable:  wind and drought and heat.  Crops lost, houses endangered.  The smell of fear mingling with the smoke.   

Sometimes we press on, continuing to do what needs to be done because the matter is urgent, or we think it is important.  But it takes it's toll on body and spirit.  The conditions worsen until we wake up so dry that our hearts are ripe for destruction, ripe for just one word or one problem to arise that will spark a fierce storm in our soul. A storm fanned into flame with winds of weariness and the heat of resentment stored.

We can continue to persevere, justifying the urgency or worth of the work.  Or we can cry out for rain that has been so long in coming that we've forgotten what it feels like, tastes like, smells like.  But we know it exists.  And we know the Source.

"The LORD answered . . . 'Who cuts a channel for the torrents of rain, and a path for the thunderstorm, to water a land where no man lives, a desert with no one in it, to satisfy a desolate wasteland and make it sprout with grass?  Does the rain have a father?  Who fathers the drops of dew?'"  (Job 38:27-28)

You, Lord.  You are the Source.  I need my time with You.

My season of sowing stretches before me into years, God willing, and I'm discovering just how greatly I need His rain on a consistent basis.  The sprinkles here and there just aren't enough.  I need a soaking rain.

There are seasons for all things.  So today, I pray for His teaching to fall like rain on us all, even as I pray for water to satisfy our thirsty land.  Let the rainy season come.




  

For the blessings that have rained down already, I give thanks.  Gifts #305 - 321:

a walk with my family

chubby fingers that pick up triangles of toast

eyes to see the beauty of every day

sitting, all five of us, on the couch covered in blankets

His Word that falls like rain

release

music that says what I feel

her "Hi, Mommy" apology when she's done something wrong

The Stinker's endless jokes and good humor

The Thinker's success at school

dancing in the family room with The Princess

cooler temperatures

field fires extinguished and no one hurt

sparkling red glass  . . .

and a mom who knows my color

His words from which flow righteousness and healing

His rain that will come

The Father of the Rain