"Why is it still dark? Why am I waking up when it is still dark? Oh Jesus, help me."
I lay there for a moment, thinking. As thoughts begin to sharpen around the edges, I think that if I don't move soon, I'll fall back asleep.
And, oh, the planties. The poor planties. They need water.
I push feet onto the floor and tip to the closet. There they are, those flip-flops with the little nubs that press into skin with each step, swiped from Mom's house last week when I tried them on and couldn't take them off.
With nubby flips and a bathrobe thrown over pajamas, the water ritual begins.
I set the hose and return inside to set the coffee. I'll be in and out moving the hose for the next two hours, so why not a leetle glance onto Pinterest? Just a few moments until the next switch...
I'm trolling down the main page, noting cute hair-swept-up buns and ombre paint walls, and then - then - I run into God.
What? God uses Pinterest?
But there He is, in an art print, and suddenly, my heart is liquid, and I could care less about fall fashion, and I shut the laptop with a thud, and I am scrambling for Word. His Word that burns flesh and cuts bones, and here I am God, and can it be true?
"Come, and let us return unto the Lord...Then we shall know, if we follow on to know the Lord: his going forth is prepared as the morning; and he shall come unto us as the rain, as the latter and former rain unto the earth." (Hosea 6:1, 3)
I've forgotten; I've given up the ghost on hope; I'm stumbling around as if it's just me and the hose taking on a brown, brown, world. And the dry and crumbly clay of this Missouri earth is in my soul too. Things I'm waiting on, prayers flung up seeming to fall back down, and I'm resigned to the drought.
But He is not.
I sit, with Hosea open on my lap, and I pray out of a new place of desperation. Oh God, God of the rain, God who has promised to come, help me to believe You. I remember Elijah, who sat on that mountain with his head in his hands, and seven times he sent his servant to search the horizon, and seven times there were no clouds. But You were to Him the God of the Coming, and that man's-hand cloud rose to fill the sky with a heavy rain.
He is a God who comes to us, through computer screen and prophet's hill. He comes to His people. When we're ready to move onto winter, 'cause there's no life here anyway. When we're thirsty and can't find the fountain. When dreams are shriveled and we don't even care anymore.
So I give Him the spade to my barren heart land, to dig me up with a Gardener's hand, and I sit and watch for the gully-washer to begin.