Drought

Dear God,

I get really nervous every time I hear the fire alarm go off if it’s not noon.  It just went off, for instance, and I am trying to keep down my panic that somewhere someone’s house is in danger of becoming a charred memory or that the highway will be engulfed in flame.  I worry about the men and women who have to go out in this awful awful heat to fight the spread of a heat that’s even more intense, which is almost hard to believe.  It is so dry outside, God.  I know you know.  I know you know the dryness of each speck of dirt out here. I know that you watch the foliage lift their leafy faces to you, imploring you to quench their desire until they droop in doubt.  I know.  But God, we need some rain.  They need some rain.  I need some rain.

See that’s the other thing.  I know you know this, too, but I’m lifting my face to you – this one here which ironically is not very dry as I finally allow some tears to fall – to say that I am feeling parched and dry.  I am so very grateful to you for so many things.  Please please don’t misunderstand me.  This life you have laid before me is incredible.  The way things came together for this particular job could only have been by your hand working on people’s hearts and minds.  Work is wonderful, in the ways that it can be and with its odd dips and doubts.  But still I am parched, dear God.  Still I am dry in my heart.  Rain in my heart so that it can rest in you.

And those dark clouds that have hung over the town?  I wouldn’t mind if you sent a little rain that way, too.

Amen.

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