It’s been dry on our homestead for several weeks now. I’ve been watching the weather apps and the skies relentlessly, looking for some hope of rain. The tedious rolling out of hoses and the agonizing view of seeing storm clouds roll by yet missing us mere miles to the north or south drew me back to this poem that I had written a few years prior, thinking at the time of very different circumstances.

And now I wonder how often these words find their way into my life. How often do I carry misplaced burdens, giving myself over to the desert of weariness? And then, when the rain does come, how long does it take me to accept it, to believe once again that dry bones can live and breathe?