Holding our breath for rain

We haven’t had any true rain since April.

Think about that for a second: Nothing to water meadows, fields, crops, flowers, trees.

We’re worried about the level of water in the well. Last week I got a drink from the kitchen tap, and there was a lot of air in the water. There shouldn’t be. Air in the water means the well is drying up. I tried not to panic, but it took a few minutes of calm during devotions that night before I remembered a prayer earlier in the year where I’d had the strongest feeling of reassurance when I’d been praying about this coming drought: “I’ll take care of you.” Lord, we’re holding you to that promise.

Things here on the side of the mountain are either heat-stressed, dying, or dead from the drought. (Of course the damn blackberries are doing great.) Outside, the overwhelming smell is dust. Walking around, you can tell where the deer have their favorite places to defecate – it reeks of deer crap, because there hasn’t been any rain to break it down.

Here’s an illustration of how much rain we’ve had since April: Take a common orange juice glass, the kind we’ve all seen at a diner; the one that is a small, narrow cylinder. Put a dime in the bottom. Drip in a few scarce drops of water so that it comes up about 1/3 of the way of the side of the dime. That’s how much rain we’ve had. 0.17 inches.

This morning, as I took Wheaton for his walk, and could feel the occasional prickle of drizzle on my arms and face. The effect is like the kind of thing you’d get if you were at the beach, standing on the dune line, and the wind was blowing in from the ocean… Enough to tease, not enough to do any good.

The windshield of the car shows both the promise, and the heartbreak:

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