The rain today reminds me of an essay that I wrote a couple of years ago, when my struggle with depression was at a low point: It rained today, and my friend Alyssa said it was refreshing. I sighed, hoping the cool air would cleanse my lungs. But they still felt half full of mud; my breath was shallow.

The rain is different to me now. It is not simply a time of gray melancholy. There is more depth in rain than that. Rain is God’s manna to the parched trees of St. Paul, and it is our reminder of the flood. God created rain to cleanse the earth of the wicked, and each rain we receive now is the same, clearing in some small way the mess we’ve made of our global home.

Wash away the salty asphalt-soot of winter, the mess of pesticides on our lawns; wash away the phlegm of our minds that pollutes our lives with anger and sadness. Give us grace to try again to make our lives right, make our planet right, before your eyes–

–because the rain-water must collect somewhere, and when it does, we still must face the mess.

One Reply to “Parched”

  1. You said that you wrote this out of duty, but I think it is still good. And even if it is out of duty, it is important to keep writing, because you never know when something great will come out of an act done as a duty. I think you are great.


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