Waiting for Rain

Tuesday, 5 September 2017
     The air is so thick with acidic smoke that a couple deep breaths could make me sick to my stomach. A layer of ash covers my car; the sun is the ominous, radioactive-red glow I've imagined it to be in Ray Bradbury's "August 2026: There Shall Come Soft Rains". Our sky is obscured by thick, grey-yellow clouds which drift down with the ash as a haze. Even as all eyes are on Houston, and our hearts are with the displaced, homeless, and hurting in Texas, the West Coast is burning.

     If I drove toward our newest, earth-razing flames, it would take me less than an hour. I was supposed to go hiking this morning, but all my favorite spots are being turned to charcoal. When one steps outside, all is still; no birds sing.

     Suddenly, the utter destruction of fire is very real, as it begins to touch individuals on the fringe of my awareness. Coworkers of my brothers, extended family of friends, even unnamed faces with whom I've shared a smile when grabbing ice cream after a hike, or making a coffee stop en route to a friend's home.

Wednesday, 6 September 2017
     At night, the man in the moon cries, his cloudy, orange face burning tragically. Even as the starless world cools, the air remains thick, sticking to my skin like sunscreen. 

Thursday, 7 September 2017
     The smell of smoke is nearly gone, but the haze remains. Fires still burn. Rain - besides a few rallying droplets - has not come. Reports say the fire is 5% contained. 5% of 30,000 acres of one of my favorite pieces of land in the world. I don't mean to be dramatic, but this is my home being ravaged. 

     And yet, even as I pray desperately for rain, for the lives of these brave firefighters, for the people displaced, the animals running - even as I pray for relief, I am keenly aware of how spoiled we are, because we have hope. This is the Northwest. Rain is most assuredly on the way - be it today, tomorrow, the next day. We wait for rain. We know it will come.

~~~~~~~

     Over a month ago, during Memorial Day weekend, a gigantic fire was started which would burn well over 40,000 acres within an hour's drive of my house. It is still burning, not projected to be put out until the end of next month. It's funny how the danger and ruin of a thing can be known yet unknown until one actually experiences it. We hear of California's fires, we smell hints of smoke from Canada's burnings, but I have never realized how hopeless one feels as fires grow, and multiply, despite man's greatest efforts. Even still, I have no idea of it's total potential: I have not had to worry about my friends, or what it would be like to be rendered homeless. 

     Still, as I wrote last month, I have been struck with the differences in the degree of helplessness we felt, compared to places like California, where rain is so much more rare. Washington isn't the Evergreen State for nothing (with, you know, Oregon as our twin) - rain is as much a given as sunshine. Or more so, depending on the time of year. We asked "When will it rain?" but it wasn't with a hopeless tone in our voice. We prayed for rain, holding in our hearts no doubt that it was well on the way.

     And the metaphor was not lost on me. It seemed last month as though each morning brought news of new disasters - hurricanes, fires, earthquakes, tsunamis. Lives lost, homes destroyed, families torn apart. Yet, as Christians, we know this chaos is not our end. Amidst wars, and rumors of wars, we have a sure and certain hope: the redemption and coming of Him who will set all things right. Like the weather in Washington, we have no doubt that this relief will soon flood our hearts. As our world burns ever toward condemnation, we reach hands to our King who "will come to us like the rain."

     May the fire end and our King come soon.