Where The Rain Begins

Which, by the way sounds like a really neat title to a book. Remember that for me, will ya? I might use it someday.

When I was a kid, maybe nine years old or so, we had a very hot, very dry, summer. My granddaddy had a garden, and it was a good sized one.

He and my grandmother had retired and moved to the country after selling the grocery store, and the farmer in him re-blossomed, I guess.

He had a garden up until the year he died, at age eighty-seven, even though he couldn't stoop anymore. He just used an old potato sack to put his  knees on, and crawled from plant to plant to weed.

Anyway, there had been prayers sent up on a daily basis for the Lord to send rain to water the garden, and all one could do after that was wait.

One afternoon I was playing in their backyard when a dark cloud came up. I could hear thunder, but could still see the sun shining too. I stood up and walked to the edge of the yard, right where the garden commenced.

It started raining. Not on me in the yard, but in the garden, right in front of me.

I would stick my arm out and let the rain fall on my hand, and my arm would stay dry.

It did this for about ten minutes, then slowly tapered off, the cloud spent.

Now, I know rain starts and stops somewhere, everytime. It has to. And I've seen pavement be suddenly dry (or wet). And I've 'run into a rain' in a car, driving in and out of it.

But this particular rain was a very elementary lesson to a little girl.

Sometimes God gives you exactly what you ask for.

Nothing more, nothing less.