The time before the rains come wash the world again and make it new, bringing with them the resurrection of this scorched earth. It is the season we put plow to the dusty rocky soil and prepare to plant with the coming rains.
We ready the ground in faith because right now nothing looks like it will ever grow and the fires lick close at our fence line. The mango trees laden with new fruit, their roots sunk deep where moisture still flows beneath stand tall against the flames. I want to be like them. Rooted. Fruitful in the fire.
But there are days here I feel more like the seared dust that swirls in whirlwinds waiting to land, like the dry cracked ground longing for moisture, like the tangles of brittle grass fragile, easily ignited, burned to ash.
But blackened earth will soon give way to green, dust will settle and cracked ground become sucking mud. In every season there are metaphors of grace. May I not miss them. May I have eyes to see His storied goodness all around me even in fire and dust.
So Papa today I pray, let my dust be blown on Your wind, my thirsty ground drink deep of Your beauty, my fragile places be ignited by Your flame even as I look for and wait the coming rains.