Dog Days of Summer

A drought.

Days marred by relentless heat, oppressive humidity. And not one drop of rain.

My flowers wilt, my herbs grow thin and yellow.

The land is parched. It aches for rain.

And my heart. It aches. Burns. Like and dry and weary land. I pant for you.

I long for your pitcher of goodness to tilt and spill towards me that I might catch a even just a splash, a trickle of You.

Yet there comes another day in the desert. And another. And another.

My tongue cracks and my lips bleed.

My mind reels with falsities, deceiving itself with empty promises of satiation.

I’m reminded of the rivers that flow beneath my feet. The wellsprings of life below me, within me.

I tear, I gouge to reach the cool, crisp core. Tearing through every doubt that tells me it’s all a lie, that You are not good.

But You are.

You are good.

And it begins to spill out of me and pour into me all at the same time.

I am full to the hilt and overflowing and I can hardly breath in the midst of Your goodness.

Will I ever be truly quenched? I hope not. Will I ever not burn for more of Your gifts, more of Your goodness? Will I ever find fullness in Your giving of gifts, even the slight ones? 

Your love, Your gifts, Your graces.

Like an unexpected and long awaited storm.

Flash flood warnings in effect for all of Your people. For me. All the time.

Especially today.

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