Watching the sky, waiting on the rain. I’ve spent many mornings like this. I’m told it’s coming. Forecasted. Most of the time I can smell it, and I usually feel it in my wrists before it arrives. Maybe that’s an old wive’s tale, but I am a wife who tells tales, so maybe it’s true for me.
I find myself looking upward for most of what I need. I know I can’t produce it; my only hope is if it falls from the heavens like manna. But I’ve been told it’s coming. And I know it in my bones, like my joints know of coming rain. My insides know that what is required for life and Godliness, is laid up in clouds of glory. My dry bed begs for a blanket. Cover me.
I hear a distant rumble and consider how heaven always declares. It’s always announcing its appearing. And how does one storm calm another? How does His storm break into mine and bring stillness? It’s the kind of storm I want to be caught in. He wrings out the clouds to sustain and revive. All that’s been sown into me, panting to be saturated by splendor.
But this particular morning, I’m still waiting for the spill over. Watching the bare sky like Elijah of old once watched. Wondering if I’ll feel a bit of heaven on my fallen frame. Feel a bit of glory in my bones. Ahhh…it’s here.