The significance of rain was never more real to me than when I first experienced a desert monsoon. It was the first 4th of July since I’d moved to Tucson, and we had some friends over to watch the fireworks, barbeque, play games, the usual activities. But once night fell, the air grew humid, and the clouds began gathering, our friends started getting excited that it was supposed to storm that evening. Even though I was used to the scarcity at that point, I didn’t get why everyone always got so worked up over the weather. It was just rain, after all.
But when we stepped out onto the porch, I saw the lightning flash across the sky, illuminating the mountains for a fraction of a second, then the sound of downpour hit me like pebbles striking metal. I’d never seen such a torrential storm like that, and I stood transfixed that this dusty land could even comprehend so much water. It was at that moment I realized how thirsty I had been for rain, and I didn’t even know until it happened.
Sometimes we find ourselves in our own desert. Maybe it’s an emotional desert full of heartache and worry. Maybe it’s a physical one, with the weariness of pain and disability to weigh us down. Or maybe we find ourselves in a spiritual wasteland. The wells of fellowship have run dry, the joy of service has faded, and the Lord seems as far away as the sun overhead. In those moments, it feels like we’re just barely hanging on, like any more waiting would put us over the edge.
But, just like a monsoon storm, the Lord arrives to provide abundantly.
Imagine the despair the disciples felt the day after Jesus was crucified. The one they had trusted, followed, believed in, suddenly taken from them in the most permanent way. I wonder if any of them remembered Jesus’s words from Matthew: “‘The Son of Man is about to be delivered into the hands of men, and they will kill him, and he will be raised on the third day’” (17:22-23). He gave them what should have been a flame of hope, but it wasn’t until they saw the empty tomb that they remembered his words.
The song Buried in the Grave by All Sons & Daughters captures this sentiment in such a poetic way: All we had, all we had was a promise like a thread holding us, keeping us from fraying at the edge. This simile resonates in a deep part of me, even more so now that I’ve taken up sewing. How can it be that such a small thing is responsible for all the integrity of the garment? Yet it is so, just as our Savior’s promise of resurrection was what the disciples’ faith hinged on. And praise be to God that Christ fulfilled every promise he gave, and they are of a stronger quality than any earthly kind.
There is hope for those traversing the wasteland, but it’s nothing this world has to offer. Instead, we must turn to the only one who can keep us from unraveling: our Savior, Jesus Christ. And the hope we receive from a life lived for him is more than sufficient to see us through any desert.