“If the rain spoils our picnic, but saves a farmer's crop,
who are we to say it shouldn't rain?” ~Tom Barrett
“Rain is grace; rain is the sky descending to the earth; without rain, there would be no life.” ~John Updike
I helped
my daughter study for a science test Tuesday morning. As we discussed the differences between
rills, gullies, and rivers, alluvial plains and deltas, erosion and deposition,
I could hear the steady patter of rain on our tin roof.
It’s a
beautiful sound – a sound that I missed when we were stateside last year, where
houses are more sound proof. And a sound
that we often take for granted here because, as we explained time and again to
friends at home, our seasons generally include “rainy” and “less-rainy.”
Though
this is the “less-rainy” season, it has been exceptionally, unusually dry. Typically “dry” season isn’t so much, but
this past few months has been refreshingly cool and dry. Many times I have walked outside, bundled in
a sweater, and relished the crisp “autumnal” air. Occasionally I could even hear the sound of
our marching band practicing down at the high school, and it would take me back
to the homecoming game, crunchy leaf, pumpkin-and-hayride days of yesteryear.
But,
despite the personal thrill I found in these deja vous moments, reports of
water tanks (which collect rain water for drinking) running dry have become
more frequent. We have never run out, or
been in danger of it, because we use (the rather dirty) river water for many
things, including showers and laundry.
But some families (understandably) prefer to use the cleaner “tank water”
for these purposes, especially during the rainy season when the supply is readily
replenished.
Unfortunately,
it’s hard to predict when the regular, heavy rains will come to an end, and
occasionally people neglect or forget to switch their plumbing valves before it’s
too late.
An
equally important complication of the drought, most PNGns rely almost
completely on home-grown produce for their sustenance, and the gardens are
suffering, too.
But it
was as I was mowing our lawn last Saturday (I should specify that I was mowing
our scattered weeds, as the grass had
only almost imperceptibly lengthened since the last time I had mowed two weeks
prior) that I noticed the fissures. 
The
light sprinkles (locally referred to as “giaman” rain, or false rain) received sporadically
over the past few weeks had done nothing to satisfy the thirsty ground.
And now,
even over the roar of the little Honda engine, I could hear the parched earth
crying out, the craters begging for relief.
Great
canyons of desiccation, desperate for refreshment.
And I
realised I could relate. Can you?
I could
see myself in those great, dehydrated cracks.
The past few months have been difficult, and I have tried to make it in
my own strength. My soul has cried out,
desperate for spiritual and emotional refreshment. And though I know the path of true relief
must include God and His Word, I have neglected far too often to water my
thirsty soul.
Neglected
the very Word we are here to see produced in more than 300 languages where
people are even more parched and desperate.
What’s
wrong with me?
Yesterday,
our maintenance department began grading the road I normally take between home
and school. I thought this was a good idea since it is rather steep and I
regularly try to skate downhill on the piles of loose gravel.
It’s a medivac
waiting to happen.
But last
night it rained. I mean, really rained. Like a good, steady downpour. The rain I could still hear tickling our roof
during the morning hydrogeology cram session.
After
walking down the freshly graded, but unpacked, road, my sandals were caked with
a good inch and a half of mud (which, to be honest, is quite a common occurrence). I kicked
them off, washed them, and went barefoot for the first couple hours of
school. (Don’t tell the kids.)
But I
was not complaining. Relief is in sight.
Yes,
Lord, send the rain!
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