Praying for Rain…

For only the second time in our existenceat Blue Star Meditation, we employ the first-person pronoun “I” as we tell a tale of fire and rain, of doubt and belief, of practical living in a mystical world. What you will hear is based on true events.

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Transcript

It was still dark one late September morning as I left California. Driving into the sunrise, the low Sonoran Desert gave way to the perilous, winding curves and peaks of the Black Jack mountains - around every turn were stunning vistas of the valleys below.

Just after 3 o’clock, I arrived at the home of my friend, a Forest Ranger, who lived on what was both a Forest Ranger compound, as well as the base of operations for the local fire response, in the remote high desert of southwestern New Mexico - in the middle of the Gila Wilderness. 

The state was experiencing an historic drought. Fires had swept through that summer, burning an area roughly the size of Connecticut.

—————

From a mountaintop lookout, the landscape was charred black patchwork with only a few bits of green — as if God had taken a black crayon and furiously scribbled out the land, like a toddler with a tantrum.

That’s how I thought of God, sometimes: a petulant child with erratic whims, forever in need of a nap.

Standing atop the lookout tower with my friend that day, as I stared out upon that devastated and blackened topography — literal scorched earth, with some patches of ground still producing faint plumes of smoke— I thought of all the animals and the people who had died from the fires (and the drought that had made them so much worse), and I doubted, at that moment, that there was any God whatsoever, of the baby variety or otherwise.

“When was the last time it rained,” I asked my friend, who seemed oddly serene given the blighted canvas before us.

“Months. It’s been months.” he said. “But we’re gonna change that tonight. That’s why you’re here.”

“Uh... huh? What are you…

But he had already descended the ladder to the ground.

“C’mon,” he shouted up at me. “It’s a drive, but the river’s gorgeous at sunset.”

—————

At the river, (which was more of a stream at this point, fifty feet of bone-dry riverbed on either side),Tom and I, that was my friend… Tom and I stood at the very edge of the water.

The sun was beginning its transition from harsh white to golden honey.

Late afternoon insects swirled in jittery cloud colonies along the river.

“Without the sun, you’d never see those little buggers,” I thought, immediately relieved that I hadn’t said that out loud.

Tom picked up a smooth stone from the water’s edge and tossed it a little ways up stream. It didn’t make much of a splash. “Five years ago, we’d be up to our waists.”

“But we’re gonna change that tonight?” I asked. 

“Yessir. C’mon. Get in.” And he began to take off his boots and socks.

“Wait, what? Is it… safe?” I asked, immediately regretting that I did, in fact, say that out loud.

Tom chuckled and stepped into the water.

“When in Rome,” I thought. I pulled off my Converse and socks, cuffed my jeans up to mid-calf and stepped in after him.

“Wow! Ffffffuuu…That’s… did you know it would be ice water?”

“Wouldn’t be much of a forest ranger if I didn’t.”

He smiled. His own jean bottoms turned a dark blue absorbing what they could… of the once substantial river. He bent down.

“Get your hands a little wet, like this.” He swirled his hands in the water,

Clapped them together a few times, then splashed them again in the frigid creek.

“I’ve come this far,” I said, bending down. For the briefest moment I felt like a kid… discovering, exploring… what was this wet stuff anyway? I smiled to myself and stood up again.

“Okay, now, give your face a little spritz,” he said, flicking the fingers of both hands towards his own face, eyes closed, icy droplets catching the sun, then descending into darkening spots on his shirt collar.

I copied my friend, and even added a little flourish, slapping my sunken cheeks rhythmically, “Shave and a haircut, two bits.”

“What is this? Forest ranger after-shave?” I joked. 

He laughed. Then he pointed behind me. “Man, will you look at that.”

I turned to see the setting sun painting the sky with its rays. Where had all the color come from? It wasn’t there a minute ago. But now, yellows and blues and reds and oranges, pinks and purples. I forgot all about my frozen toes, and my wet face, and my crazy friend. I just…breathed in the sky.

And as I did I thought about how… all those sunbeams, adding colors to the sky, were also adding color to me — a warm glow that dried my damp face and my dripping fingertips.

Standing, ankle-deep, atop a galaxy of smooth stones in a sparkling crystal river, with my friend, I realized… this was as close to a perfect moment as there is in this world. The gurgle of the trickling water. The buzzing of the insects. This little patch of heaven, miraculously spared by the fires —skipped over — who knows why. The air smelled not of black ash, but of green foliage. I breathed in deep and closed my eyes.

“Hey, we better get to the diner before the evening rush.” Tom’s call snapped me out of my reverie. 

He was was already back on dry riverbed, putting his boots back on. Again, I followed his lead, kicked most of the water from my feet and slipped my trusty Chick Taylors over my blissfully warm and dry socks.

In the truck on the way to dinner, we were both quiet. After cresting a little hill I caught a glimpse of the burnt landscape once again.

“Hey,” I said, pointing, “weren’t we gonna do something about that? I thought we were supposed to… make it rain or… something?”

“We did,” he said.

I checked the sky. Not a rain cloud in sight. “I hate to break it to you, Tom, 

but this isn’t exactly a torrential downpour.”

“God’s timing is always perfect,” Tom said. “You can’t rush the big guy. Besides, we only just prayed for rain a half hour ago.”

“You were with me a half hour ago.”

“Yes, that’s what I meant by ‘we,’ you and me.”

I could tell he was enjoying this.

“The river? That was like, what, a rain dance?”

“Well, no, I didn’t want to bring out the big guns.”

“But that was a prayer? We… prayed for rain?”

“Did you close your eyes?”

“Yeah. For a second or two.”

“Did you feel a sense of gratitude? For everything? For the earth. For the moment?”

“I… did.”

“Did you smell the moisture in the air? Did you feel wet? On your face?

Soggy, perhaps, between your toes?”

“My toes are still soggy.”

“Well, then, good, you prayed. You were, energetically, in the experience of rain. You felt and appreciated and were taken by, body and soul, all that could not be if not for rain.”

“But I never, like, asked God, or whatever, for rain”

Tom laughed pretty hard at that.

“God knows what we want. Goes with the whole omniscience thing. And anyway, the minute you ask for something, you acknowledge the lack it. And you end up concentrating on (and therefore putting all kinds of psychic energy into) its absence. Best way to stay poor, is by praying to be rich.”

“I think everyone I know prays to be rich.”

“Of course. And how many of them are?”

“I see your point.”

“But best part,” said Tom “is that your were grateful for the drought. The dry part of the riverbed. If that river were full, you’d have been swept away by the current. But as you stepped from dry land to water and back again

you gave thanks for the drought, for the safety it provided. 

“And… now that I’m safe?”

“Right, now that you’re safe, you have no need for it anymore. The drought, the fires, these were useful tools. But they have served their purpose. We get to choose a new tools now. Go in peace, sweet drought. Thanks for the beautiful sunsets, dear fires. It’s been a pleasure.”

Tom tipped a hat he was not wearing and we both laughed.

—————

Dinner was a good time. I don’t think I’d eaten since leaving Los Angeles that morning. So the food was extra delicious. And the firefighters at the diner told us stories of the various blazes they fought, while the waitress rolled her eyes. She’s heard these tales gather more and more fantastic embellishments over the years. 

After a few hours, we left, stuffed and with our cheeks sore from laughter. We headed back to the compound.

—————

As we walked from the truck to the front door of the cabin, the first drop landed on my cheek.

It wasn’t in the forecast. No one expected it. Well, almost no one. 

Tom looked to the sky and shrugged his shoulders, as if to say, what do you know. Then with a smile, he walked inside and called out to me, “Hey, grab a couple pieces of firewood, if you don’t mind. I have a feeling we’re gonna need ‘em tonight.”

A few moments later, heading into the house, amid a soft rain, my arms full of hickory and oak that I held so tightly it was almost an embrace, I stopped to inhale their scent and to thank them for their life and their usefulness, for the anticipation of their mystical transformation into heat and light. 

I crossed the threshold… just as it began to pour — a flash of lightning, a faint rumble of thunder in the distance.