The earth cries out for rain. Four summers of drought - the landscape scorched brown and brittle underfoot. The cattle congregate in the shade of the oaks, silent and motionless. The old llama, in her shaggy brown coat, wisely chooses to sit in the shadow of the only tree in her little paddock - gently chewing her cud. Days of clear blue sky and fiery sun follow in a seemingly endless cycle. And we
pray for rain.
A day comes when the clouds begin to gather. We cast hopeful eyes heavenward, almost afraid to look lest they disappear over the horizon. The trees bend and sway in the rising wind that carries the sweet scent of rain. The temperature begins a slow descent.
The first drops clang against the metal chimney piece and splatter on the sidewalk. Soon it is raining in earnest, and we give thanks. It comes like a benediction - the promise that all will be well.
The days of chaos and evil and sorrow follow one after another in a seemingly endless cycle. But we have a Father in heaven who has promised that good will come. We cannot see into all the tomorrows, but He is there. So we look heavenward, pray, love, help and wait for the benediction.