Rain. I have always hated rain. I half joke and say I would like to move to Arizona. The desert part. Where it rarely rains. Days on end of rain get to me. Heaven forbid weeks and months like it felt at the end of 2009 and early 2010. I needed sunshine.
But now, this summer? 2011? I'm craving rain. I pray for a thunderstorm each day. Perhaps it was the dry days of late spring and early summer that threatened a summer drought. Maybe it is how my spirit is feeling lately. Melancholy and fighting to seek the gifts. To give thanks. This season of growth and testing God seems to be using. I find myself craving the rain. Lost in thought as the summer thunder rumbles for what seems like hours.
Praying the rain will bring growth to my restless spirit. Praying it will bring healing to my wounded heart.
For almost two years I grew. Growing into myself, in all God was teaching me. An excitement in the growth. Anxious for what He was teaching me. Finding my voice through my art. Sensing Him everywhere and in everything. Grasping at a faith of my own.
Then suddenly that feeling lost. Still learning. Continuing to grow.
Yet a painful growth.
Learning to seek when hurtful words pierce. Moving toward Him when faith in humans is lost. Knowing He is faithful when disappointment in mortals takes hold.
"For great is your love, reaching to the heavens; your faithfulness reaches to the skies." Psalm 57:10 (NIV)
Seasons of growth. Some bright with promise. Others clouded with gray.
But this growth? This growth striped with pain? We need this as much as we need growth marked with joy. How else do we learn to seek Him through life's darkest hours? How can we cherish the growth in joy without knowing the painful? What other way do we learn to give thanks in everything? Even when our spirit hurts we must learn to give thanks. Eucharisteo.
I sit rocking on my porch. Feeling the fallen temps after the storm chill my skin. The train whistling in the distance. Rain dripping from the trees as crickets sing their praises to the creator. One star barely visible through clouds.
My nightly liturgy of sorts. This place where I think. Where I pray. Where I listen. Where sometimes I don't like His answers. Where I am learning to pray "bring the rain. Yes. Bring the rain."