When the rains just keep coming, and it’s August in Texas, I shake my head in unbelief. We pray for rain. We need it desperately. Always.

So desperate, I throw out my arms to greet it. My hands embrace it. The fragrance fills me.
 

Coming home, my daughter is in the back seat singing these timely words, “Maybe this is how it starts. I find You when I fall apart.”

It’s truth.
 
The rains can be painful. Branches fall. Leaves fall.

My stomach still isn’t back to normal since my surgery. The nurse revealed my height has decreased slightly due to scoliosis, a condition I didn’t know I had until this last year. A dear friend is now being aided by Hospice (Update: my friend is with Jesus today, August 7, 2014).
 
That’s truth, too.

The rearview mirror gives a beautiful glimpse of my daughter singing. Her tender face. Her tender voice sings the words to her favorite song—“How can I come to the end of me and somehow still have all I need?” 

And oh, that baby girl, now 14, has experienced rain. Gut wrenching rain. She doesn’t remember it now. She was just a baby. But oh, how I remember. We were never the same. If there was ever a doubt in my mind … her falling apart sealed my faith.

Yes, the rains can be painful.
 
The cool air brushes through my hair. The thermometer reads 76 degrees. The change is relief to my sun-scorched soul.

More truth.

The rains can be beneficial.
 
When the rains come, refuse to hide. Find God. Throw out your arms to greet Him. Bask in the change. His change. For you. Let Him fill you. Overflow. Let Him refresh your weary soul.

Go out and splash. Go out and play. With Him. For Him. Even if only in your mind.

God’s love will spill over to others. The splash is contagious.

That’s Jesus truth.

Hope.
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 











Take joy in the little things.

Find rest for your soul, in the Lord.

Stay on the right path, God’s path.

Keep encouraging friends close.

Father, thank you for the change that accompanies the rain.

I shake my head … your greatness, your goodness, you … You, God … your unbelievably good.

In loving memory of my friend, Charles Johnson.