The Way of the Rain; Paths in the Desert

With the return of the flood we were again blessed with the rain. We were singing: Raindrops keep fallin’ on my head, and we had a talkin’ to the son, that we don’t like the way he got things done.

The flood crept and we kept our eyes upon it. Rain gathered up the water damaged baseboards in our homes; further and further until we hoped that it wouldn’t hit the high mark from all those memories ago.

Outside again, the disciple was trying to walk on water but really standing on His rock. He was giving thanks to the rain. Rain that left us food for our tables; food for our souls. Preaching practically, teaching us this is the way to our salvation, that we must join him, this was the way of our parents, this is what we must do; this is what we must want.

And in a mob we joined him. We lifted our arms parallel with our shoulders and fell backwards, feeling the floods washing over our faces.

I opened my eyes and looked past the white water and wondered if it worked. I wanted it to work so much. Wanted to be what everybody wanted me to be; wanted it more desperately than those that wanted it for me. But when my eyes closed I was out in the dry country, chasing after the shadows of Cain.

Words float by: is it better to burn out than to fade away? is the way of the flood better than the person praying for rain?

Then from out of the blue, a voice pushed me: You don’t need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows.