I find myself again on the prairies where the weather becomes the fixation of most all conversation. I remember it always to be this way.
“We sure could use some rain,” plays out in harmonious floods through every local conversation; as soon as the words close on one set of lips, they start again on another. “Sure wish the run-off could have filled the dug-out this year,” “Hope the moisture is on its way.” Most days the skies tend to withhold their bounty in spite of constant verbal requests.
The farmer’s fret blisters under this prairie heat where the absence of falling water will determine again what he will reap of a life sown in his beloved ground. The farmer’s yield is dictated by the ruling of an element he cannot control. He has surrendered; he works and tills and labors a land whose fruit ultimately is decided by a hand not his own. The farmer is a man assembled in faith; he plants his hope with his seed and prays that both will rise from beneath their buried resting place.
I must believe that my being born here, calling this place ‘home’ for some twenty-three seasons of seed to harvest (well, to be exact, I guess I missed that first seed, as I ‘came to be’ somewhere smack in the middle of growing season) has put in me a potent wanting of those falling skies. My recollections of the earliest years are hazy – but what I do remember as constant, is a cry for rain. I remember parched grounds desperate for a swig of something that would keep them prolific and alive.
Little here has changed.
Bodies and the soil alike plead for rain. My petition is drawn for different reasons than that of the farmer, but we both yearn for a facet that will spill out mercy, for a gracious deluge that will feed something buried. Like the farmer, I pray for rain.
I like my sky the same way I like people: with depth and varied color, with dynamic character and pockets of surprise. I like a sky that stretches to define itself, a sky that will banner wondrous blues and then blow in dark corners to keep you guessing what it holds.
I like a sky that refrains from overcast obscurity, one that keeps from that dreadful color called ‘gray’- which does little but ooze apathy in its choosing to be neither dark nor light. Gray must be avoided, for it is a compromise of what needs to be fully asserted in light or in darkness. Gray is half-hearted. I crave a sky that is about something – a sky that will boldly state that which it wishes to say.
In the face of wanting a torrent of rain - I temporarily love the soft skies, the happy skies; they remain calm, reserved for the exhibition of goodness where light transfers without effort, where warmth is blinding, and where creation manifests itself with brilliant blues and delicate brushes of white. The light spans of sky are composed of modest strokes, they are humble in their presentation, they are quiet, and submissive to something beyond themselves. Soft skies are open, they are inviting, and they benevolently offer beauty where a distracted eye may easily miss their allure if not turned upward. Their message is not loud; it is one of beauty existing simply for the sake of the glorifying the beautiful.
Blue skies are lovely indeed – but their bestowal would go unrecognized and inadequately praised without the latter presence of their dark cousins. And often I find it is the dark that delivers. I crave that shaded transition; I hunger for what I hope will fall from weighted clouds. I yearn for something fierce.
With a heart hungry, my beloved rain returns.
Forfeiting a solo performance, it comes accompanied with lucent flashes and hollers that captivate. I love the boldness of the storm, its raw expression. I love that it decides. Dark clouds do not wait for you to finish your run when three miles of gravel separate you from your front door, they do not care that your car was washed just two hours ago and will now display murky spots instead of your gleaming efforts, the storm cares not that you left your clothes on the line to dry – it simply comes, self assurance streaming from every drop.
The storm is an activist for its anomalistic nature; it pickets luminescent skies and strident crashes of sound. We cannot deny it our attention; its beguiling nature pulls us from the places to which we have drifted, it brings us back. The storm demands our focus; it makes us aware - for it has something to say. With such a hallowed performance I believe it worthy of my listening.
I listen as rain pounds pavement, as it floods grasses and congregates in already fallen pools of itself. I listen as tiny drops jointly compose rhythms of deliverance where matter falls and is freed, and the fortuitous bystander gets to drink of the liberating waters. It is here that my senses overload, incapable of devouring quick enough the sight of falling water, the kisses met upon my skin, the aroma of wet life.
It is here that my gaze is anchored on this masterful sky, on the beads of grace that fall from them. My romance with this storm rests upon just that - grace, upon an undeserved cleansing that frees me, upon waters that quench what has long been dry.
Under His reigning sky something sprouts. It is here that I know darkness capable of delivering life, that I am boldly reminded of grace and goodness disguised, and like the farmer I find that reaping what I sow is a matter of faith where my hands must be removed.
The storm beckons me in its boldness; it is daring. It calls us to live as it does, to shower dry grounds with truth, to extend mercy as it is so freely given.
Audeamus – ‘let us dare’ to live stormful lives.
May we be gracious to a world parched and waiting for rain.
