I prayed it would.
Normally, I don't pray for weather beyond begging to be spared from two feet of snow in April.
But we've been entrenched in this forever-long feeling drought; this summer has been one of endlessly sunshiney days with hardly any lost to rain or chill.
And we've done what most midwesterners who've been cooped up during long prairie winters do -- we've taken advantage of the sunny skies, filling our days with parks and swimming and walks and friends and cramming each one from sun up until sun down.
Though it doesn't show as obviously as it does on the trees, the plants, the flowers, all distressed with their brown leaves, drooping stems, wilting blooms, I began to notice the harshness of the deep-summer elements taking a toll on our family last week. I felt like I was at my breaking point before we left for the lake this past Friday as I impatiently barked orders at my squabbling boys.
We've been feeling just as scorched as our plants.
We've been feeling just as scorched as our plants.
The rain that would normally send us inside for a quiet afternoon or inside day of play hasn't come.
We've been as out of rhythm as the weather.
So Saturday, after a long day in the sun, when the wind started blowing and clouds started thickening into gray just over the lake while we were getting ready for dinner Saturday night, I prayed it wouldn't just rain on our parade
but that it would pour
because the parade has long needed a reason to stop
and just be still.
There's growth in the sun, yes.
But there's refreshment, rhythm repaired in the steadiness of a good rain.
