Except for a few recent showers, it’s been five or six months without rain around here. We got to watch cars and street signs and our bedroom windows turn whitish dull with the summer’s accumulated dust. Hardly a cloud in the sky, but the same pale haze in the air. (Get a little wind to kick up the dust, and you can forget about seeing the view). I suppose we’ve breathed this dust and eaten this dust. Sometimes we wear it on our dark-colored clothes.
So the rainstorm last week? A little lightning, some epic thunder, and streams running down the stairs outside. The colors washed bright again. The sky clear and blue — with fluffy clouds. The view is back: from the edge of Jerusalem, you can see the Dead Sea again. And the autumn crocus has just reappeared.
So even with the switch from sandals to sweaters, I’m deeply glad to see the rain. It tells me Someone’s listening. Someone who cares about me, deserving or not. Who does things I long for, but cannot do myself.
And you know, there’s really something to be said for waiting.
It makes the ordinary feel like sheer grace.
Elisabeth Adams 