A Plea for Rain

This morning I packed my children and a basket of soiled laundry into our Tahoe, and made the 20 minute drive over to my parents place.

We're in a state of drought right now. Our grass is brown and everything seems to be covered in a dusty film. It's been weeks since we had a good soaking rain to replenish the earth; our well is beginning to feel it. We've been trying to conserve water, a task you don't realize would be so difficult until you're made aware of the lack. Things like fresh laundry and daily showers and watering the garden suddenly feel like a luxury when faced with the possibility of needing to haul water in.

The ground is parched, cracked and aching for rain, and in a way, my soul is too.

I've snapped at Carson, my tone less than loving at times, and if the neighbors would overhear my language when talking to yelling at our dogs, they'd begin to question my profession of Faith, for in more complex terms, I have threatened to call the pound and even suggested doggy death-row for misdemeanors not deemed worthy of either of those punishments.

The burdens of the week -of diapers and potty training, of many nights of interrupted sleep and mornings waking up more tired than I was when I went to bed, of shootings and protests and racism- have left me weary.

I ache for rain, to be able to show grace to my children in the same way grace was given to me, to realize the drought is just a season. It won't last forever.

I worked on the laundry, two very large loads, while chatting with my mom and filling three 5 gallon thermos' with fresh drinking water to take along home. After we ate lunch together, I took Carson out to their pond for a swim. The little man was dirty, we had skipped baths last night to conserve resources, the berry stains and dust in his hair were proof; this might be his bath of the week.

My mind wandered as I watched the ripples splash across the water, first tiny, then growing larger and larger, until they reached the shore. I cannot shake the feeling that my silence might send the message that I don't care, that I don't see their hurt, or care about their pain.

I do. But I am silent because I'm scared. 

I think back to the events that played out a month ago, of a joke that was told, how I was the only one not laughing. How inside me a war was raging, but I stayed silent. If my black sister or black brother would have been there, would have my silence told them that I will fight for them? That I will stand up to injustice and stand beside them?

I know the answer, and I feel shame. 

This drought has forced me to pull in resources to remedy our lack so that life can continue to grow, so that we have clean water to drink, a way to do laundry and wash dishes.

In the same way, the systemic racism the has been a hot topic in media, effecting so many lives across our nation, has caused me to search for answers and search my heart. I've begun to pull in resources, to pour over blog posts and articles, to taking time to read what people of color are saying. To listen and learn and grow.

I'm praying for heavy rain to bring an end to this drought, replenishing the soil and our well, and for heavenly rain to flood my soul with grace and love and compassion and understanding toward my family, the white children I birthed and the people of every tribe and nation, my sisters and brothers of color.

And I pray that this work I am doing now, listening and learning and trying to understand, will have a ripple effect, passing down to my children and their children, growing in influence with each new generation. I pray that they will know that Black Lives Matter.

"The ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in moments of comfort and convenience, but where he stands at times of challenge and controversy. " -MLK