After these weeks of triple digit heat
in a summer that began in April,
this second season of drought
that turned half of the state brown in May,
we prayed for rain at church.
With the grim red showing severe
on the western third of Kansas,
we acknowledged that we do not deserve
to be blessed while others suffer
but asked for blessing anyway,
for both the blessed and the suffering.
We confessed in the passing sparkle
of Independence Day,
that we are completely dependent
upon the Hand of Heaven
for rain, for food, for life.
On the afternoon
of the second Lord’s Day in July,
We sat outside on the next evening
following the rain,
a north breeze sifting the leaves of the locust,
its lacy shadows framing the moon.
I leaned back, shirtless in the dark,
welcoming the soft stirring of cool
against the sweat and soreness
of a long day.
This is as close as air can come
to defining grace.