…albeit…. S L O W L Y.
Perhaps the weather condition of my home state reflects in the condition of my blog posting—or lack thereof—over the past several months:
85% of Texas is in either extreme or exceptional drought, the two worst categories.
My hometown of Fredericksburg is in the Exceptional Mode.
Exceptional being AWFUL - - DRY - - - parched.
In addition to drying up, our temperatures are high and higher. We are inching our way upwards from 42 days of triple digit temperatures. For those of you who, like me, are slow in math, “triple digits” is a fancy term for anything over
ONE HUNDRED DEGREES +
of hot, hotter and hottest temperatures.
Today in Kerrville, Texas – a mere 20 miles from Hometown – the outside temperature registered
No rain means dry fields, empty creeks, dry lawns, dying trees, no wildflowers, and precious few weeds. It means livestock are sold off at rock bottom prices and that wild animals—deer, raccoons, skunks, possums—are skin and bones skinny and hungry and thirsty. And dying.
Our Texas hill country has had more than our share of drought conditions off and on during the past several years.
Believe me that dry is bad even in the winter because dry burns regardless of the temperature.
But DRY in summer is frightening because summer-hot dry burns faster and hotter and in the blink of an eye.
Do you remember reading Erma Bombeck’s The Grass is Always Greener Over the Septic Tank? Wise woman, Erma. Here’s a picture of the pasture, way behind our house, that sits on top of our septic tank. J
|Notice the dry, burned-up, wasted pasture all around.|
At church the other day, some of our local friends complained to me about our neighbor across the road and his use of EVERYONE’s underground water to irrigate HIS hay fields. I have nothing to do with another’s use of water and while the said neighbor is within his legal rights—part of his livelihood / agricultural needs—we’ve noticed that it’s been weeks since an 18-wheeler truck has maneuvered through his narrow gate to pick up a single bale of hay. We have noticed, by the way, that in spite of our community water wetting down his hay fields, his coastal is not growing. Yes, it is green, but the weather is too hot for the grass to grow tall enough to cut and bale.
Seems to this city girl that my Sunday School teachers were onto something way back in the early 1940’s when they taught us to take turns, to share, and to love one another.
Each night, the weather people continue to say, “There is no hope for rain.”
Nevertheless, we who are called by His name continue to petition Him, our High and Holy heavenly Father, Creator of all that is or has been or ever will be, to be merciful and to heal our hearts, forgive our sin-filled ways, and to please wet our land and fill our creeks.
And, by the way—again—do you remember that dreadful day this spring??? May 22, 1011… Joplin, Missouri…. Talk about deadly.
So, while we entreat (beg, plead) our Holy Father to pour out water from the heavens onto our land, we must remember to continue to pray for those who lost everything. Homes. Belongings. Photographs. Grandmothers. Aunts. Livelihoods. Kitchen sinks. Roofs to cover those who survived.
And we MUST give thanks for God’s perfect love.
Praying to serve and glorify my God and my King.