The Rains Have Come (They Always Do)

The Rains Have Come (They Always Do)

September 16, 2017

I-94 West. A calm Saturday morning. The truck rolls along smoothly, guided by the Trucker’s arm draped over the wheel. The road is flat and straight, and empty. Flowing from the radio, music gently presses silence to the cab’s corners. Lost in thought, the Trucker and his Passenger sit quietly.

Outside, the landscape is barren. Amber grasses and scrubby bushes hold their ground between vast expanses of black. Power line poles are darkened, their lines dipping toward earth. Post and wire fences that parallel the highway are laid over, poles burned out, unsupported wire fallen. The flames have passed, and are gone.

And the rains have come. They always do. 

The low hanging atmosphere of ash and acrid smoke of summer has given way to a blanket of rain clouds. A continual mist hangs in the air, now light, now steady rain. Brown, rustling grasses have a golden tinge. Scrubby gray bushes show light green hope at the ends of their sharp stems.

 The gullies have standing water, and new grass poking experimental blades tentatively upward. Low areas that protect occasional trees now sport color, as the leaves are changing clothes, awaiting their release to spiral toward earth in the beauty of death after a life of purpose well lived. Occasional fields have now exploded with a riot of green, their growth competing with the calendar’s race toward winter.

The temperature stands at 38 degrees. Oh. Last trip west, two weeks ago, it showed 100. My duffle bag in the bunk, duly packed after checking long range forecasts across the country, sports t-shirts and flip flops. Never mind. Two days from now, those clothes will work. At the moment, sweats and fuzzy socks wrap me in cozily, while the truck carries us forward.

And the rains have come. They still do.

Gentle mists of tears, harsh, ripping torrents of sobs, over the blackened, empty landscape where our hopes and dreams once grew. The Trucker guides me through this as well, sheltering me in his care. I envision our Savior, His arms around us both, His hand on the Trucker’s shoulder through the storm. May these rains also grow hope at the ends of the sharp stems of accusations and assumptions.

Even so, come, Lord Jesus. You always do.