It is not often that in July
that a rain will come as nicely as this one did:
two-point-seven inches of rain in eight hours
and not a puddle anywhere except on pavement.
A good, slow, soaking shower that lasts for hours and hours
gives just about every drop to the soil that needs it.
In the planted fields,
it spatters against blades and leaves and slips down stems and stalks,
heavy drops broken into smaller ones,
all of them moving into the earth
and down, down to the roots,
down to the deeper places.
For such a rain as this, we should offer sacrifices in the temple.
A sacrifice of praise that comes from the heart,
a sacrifice of joy that radiates from the core outward,
a sacrifice of thanksgiving
that carries the pure essence of genuine gratitude on reverent lips.
I am convinced that the Lord would not be the least bit offended
if I danced before him,
a rhythmic offering of delight and exultation in his benevolence,
feet bouncing from wet grass,
arms and hands shaken in the reverberations of adulation.
Whether or not we are worthy of this blessing,
I will give thanks and be glad for it.
There is nothing like a season of drought
to bring about godly joy
in the deliverance of a good rain.