One morning this week, I had a front-row seat at the symphony.
We’ve had, as my father called it, a “dry drought” for several weeks, with blazing sunshine and temperatures that turn cars into Easy-bake ovens.
Leaves are turning, not from approaching autumn, but from plain old dehydration.
Something about this new school year has left me feeling a lot like those trees.
Exhausted, somehow, and dry.
Sunday I knelt at my church’s alter and begged God to refresh me, to pour His presence out on me like rain on dry land.
Thursday morning, I asked Him again
to use me,
to let me experience His favor,
to fill my mouth with His words once more.
I went to the porch with a cup of coffee, sat in my trusty rocker, and breathed the last of my prayer across the predawn darkness:
“Lord, please send us rain.”
Then I heard it.
A rustling like dry leaves in the wind building across the ridge like applause when the curtain rises.
Sheets of it, singing on the roof, quenching thirsty ground,
soaking weary hearts,
refreshing dry spirits.
It was music.
It was art.
Heaven’s instruments and my praises playing harmony.
I don’t know when or how exactly God will fulfill my heart’s cry,
but I know He heard it,
and answered it
with a resounding symphony of raindrops.
That one sweet storm didn’t break the heat; by afternoon we were back to baking.
But I know,
more rain is coming.