by jphilo | Jul 31, 2015 | Family
We’ve had plenty of rain in central Iowa this summer, but the same was not true in Idaho during my visit a few weeks back. They are having the hottest, driest summer anyone out there can remember. So this Idaho post from July of 2011, when Family Camp began with a cold and rainy bang, caught my eye. As did the rainbow on the mountain. Lovely!
As was mentioned in yesterday’s entry, the weather introduced a chilly, wet number on the first official day of camp. Day 2 dawned sunny and cool, but by lunchtime the clouds moved in, turning things chilly again. The showers held off until supper, but we stayed happy, safe and dry beneath the pavilion.
After the meal was over, folks stayed put, talking while they waited for the rain to end and the hymn sing to begin. The sun, on the other hand, didn’t wait for anything. Not even for the rain to stop. It showed up for the hymn sing a little early, and pretty soon our side of the mountain echoed with shouts.
“A half-rainbow!”
“Everybody, look at the rainbow.”
“It’s getting bigger!”
“It’s all the way across the sky.”
“Come quick!”
“Look!”
“Look!”
“Look before it fades away!”
The cries of wonder faded with the passing of the fractured light. But a bit of magic, a touch of promise lingered all around, weaved in and out of the music, breathed hope into every heart. We sang with fervor, and our voices lingered over the words of the last song, unwilling to let go of the rainbow, determined to cling to the promises of our faith.
We lift our eyes up unto the mountains.
Where does our help come from?
Our help comes from you,
Maker of heaven, Creator of the earth.
Oh, how we need you, Lord.
You are our only hope.
You are our only prayer.
So we will wait for you to come and rescue us.
To come and give us life.
We lift our eyes up, unto the mountains.
Where does our help come from?
Come quickly, Lord Jesus! Come!
by jphilo | Aug 9, 2010 | Daily Life
Can anybody tell me when Iowa swapped out summer for monsoon season? Apparently we were so busy with weddings this spring and summer, the climate switcheroo news flash escaped us.
The mass of vibrant green lawns, not a normal sight during an unusually hot August, made us a wee bit suspicious on our way home from church yesterday. “This is weird,” I commented to Hiram. “Lawns are supposed to turn brown in August.”
“Yeah,” he agreed. “In this heat, it takes a lot of water to keep grass this green.” All afternoon, we couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that pressed down upon us, more stifling than the day’s humidity.
Looking back, I wonder if the uneasiness was a premonition of the night to come. We’d no sooner gone to bed than thunder rattled, lightning brightened the windows, and the rain fell. Not one of the three stopped until daybreak. On several occasions, the thunder crashes sent me into horizontal levitation. I thought the noise was the worst of it until my walk when daylight revealed the base of our driveway nearly washed away, and the gravel road to our east completely washed out. The road was positively hopping with toads flooded out of their digs. The stream was out of it’s banks. Worst of all, after my walk, with Hiram high and dry at work, I found ground water standing in the basement. Not as bad as the flood of ’93, but wet just the same.
We expected a flood in March after all the snow last winter. But it didn’t happen.
We were ready for water in June when it rained like ’93. We stayed dry.
We were prepared for a wet wedding in July. We escaped again.
But August? Who ever heard of an Iowa monsoon in August?
I shoulda have paid attention to that premonition and checked the basement before Hiram went to work. He coulda stayed home and started building while I rounded up a couple toads on the washed out road.
Me and the toads want to hop on the ark.
by jphilo | Mar 27, 2009 | Current Events
I’m up early this cold morning, waiting for the sun and the temperature to rise before I take my walk. Waiting can be hard. I cope with it by finding something constructive to do because the activity, no matter how meaningless, gives me an illusion of control.
For days now, the residents of Fargo have been waiting for the Red River to crest. My cousin Karen and her family live near the flood plain. Their days and nights have been filled with activity. They’ve helped sandbag the river and moved everything to the second story of their house. Two of my southwest Minnesota cousins have daughters at college in Fargo. While the kids are sandbagging the city, their parents wait for their children to call or email, and make plans about how to get them safely home.
With a catastrophe this large, there’s no way to create an illusion of human control. Everyone in Fargo and all of us watching know this situation is beyond us. We need more help than men can offer, hope beyond what we can see. That’s why people, including many who claim not to believe in God, resort to prayer.
Waiting isn’t easy. Most of us turn to it when we come face-to-face with our own helplessness, when there’s nothing more to do. I’ve been in that place often in the last few years. Whenever my lack of control drives me to prayer, the same truth emerges: kneeling before the God who is in control is the most constructive thing I can do.
Father in heaven, only you can help Karen and her family, Kalli, Briana, and all the people suffering in Fargo. Give them wisdom. Keep them safe. Give them the hope of Christ, the God who suffered for their sins and rose again. Amen.
by jphilo | Apr 25, 2008 | Daily Life
I wasn’t planning to post today, but one look at the creek during my morning walk and I changed my mind. After heavy rains the past two nights, our normally quiet little stream is a noisy torrent, overflowing its banks.
My flower beds are saturated so I took advantage of the wet and pulled more dandelions, quack grass and clover. While I weeded I discovered the warm, wet weather has put spring on the fast track. The rhubarb’s bigger than it was yesterday, and the first stalk of asparagus has sprouted. Two days ago, all my clematis looked dead. Today, every one of them is budding. And by afternoon, the magnolia will be blooming.
The forecast for the next few days will put a halt to things pretty darn quick. Our faithful and highly accurate ISU climatologist, Elwynn Taylor, says we’re in for the eighth of the seven arctic blasts predicted for the winter of 2007-2008. So highs will only be in the 50s for several more days.
I’m bummed, but I can handle it unless we get a frost and the magnolia blossoms get nipped. If that happens I may go berserk and rip out the asparagus patch.
Actually, that’s not a bad idea…
