I live in a dry land. Years deep in a drought, it’s drier than normal.
Last year the weather was predicted to turn in our favor. But the deluge didn’t come. Water restrictions remain. The landscape wears an earth-tone palette day after day.
Yet hot on the heels of record-setting heat—in the middle of fire season—the skies opened.
I took three walks in the rain. Because I could. Each time I marveled at the moisture falling from the sky, puddling on the ground, running down the streets, seeping into dead lawns and splashing on my bare arms.
As I scribbled mental notes of the sights and sounds and smells, one word kept interrupting me: hope.
Most days hope seems nebulous. An intangible something tantalizingly close but not quite here, not quite real.
But on occasion hope falls like manna.
I watched the rain. I felt it. I heard it. I experienced it. Drop after drop. Hour after hour. Renewing and refreshing a parched land . . . and soul.
I can’t chase it down or make it appear. I can’t plan for its effects. I can’t keep it longer by clenching it in my fist.
But when it arrives I walk in it with open hands and a thirsting heart. Because I can.