SHOWERS OF BLESSING
Last night the skies quickly darkened just before sunset and gushed out gallons upon gallons of water. For the next twenty minutes the wind blew every direction as our streets and patios started to collect so much water that it had nowhere to go. As quickly as the deluge began it stopped. Even the wind subsided. And then the power went out.
Although our city is about as close to the south pole as you can get in all of Brazil, we’re also as close to the equator as the panhandle of Florida. The humidity here is relentless as five rivers pour into the world’s largest lagoon and give off plenty of water into the air every day.
I’m convinced my body was designed for crisp and dry mountain air. I find the winters here much too warm and far too short. By early spring I’m a constantly sweaty puddle of a human, seeking constant refuge underneath a fan. Whenever the power goes out I’m left to feel the humid air one slowly falling sweat drop down my back at a time, sitting, staring, waiting, and wondering.
Two years ago last night we arrived here. I’d never felt more stressed than trying to juggle three kids and 30 pieces of luggage between countries. Our departure day was such a whirlwind that I couldn’t even process what was even happening until our plane lifted off and the only country I’d called home shrank out of sight with each passing second.
I’d left America a few times before, but always on a round-trip ticket. There is nothing like buying a one-way ticket away from home. And when I arrived here and finally brought in all our luggage, I sat and sweat in my new living room in my new apartment in my new country, looking out the window as the city passed me by. And a voice whispered in my head, “I’ve made a terrible mistake.”
Two years later I now sit in the dark, sweating in the same spot and looking out that same window, thinking about how far we’ve come. And how much farther we still have to go.
When I served as a pastor to many farmers I got to hear plenty of farming jokes. Sometimes we’d be asked to pray for weather to be favorable, but generally no one complained about rain – even when it wasn’t the best time for it or when there was too much of it or too little. Rain was life and God decides how much we get and when it comes to us.
Rain here overwhelms our city sometimes. I’ve driven on flooded streets with water up to the top of my tires. I’ve seen rain overtake our parking garage and elevators. And rather consistently any storm carries with it the coin-flip odds of knocking out our building’s electricity.
And yet I think of my mentors in the Dakotas, the farmers, who taught me never to complain about the rain. It’s life and God gives it. He’s given us a new home, new neighbors, new friends, and a new city. And the rain is a reminder of his blessings. God has sustained us through culture shock, grief, a pandemic (so far), and something like 19 different verb tenses and thousands of new words.
We can celebrate the wins together as a family. Portuguese comes out a little easier these days. It seems realistic to me that soon I might even be putting together some lectures and sermons in my new language.
And most importantly to me is the reminder with the rains that growth takes time. Even when the rains pour, the crop still takes weeks to sprout, grow, and ripen unto harvest. We are but halfway into our first term on the field. We’re just beginning to shoot up past the muddy soil.
God has been good. He’s provided more than enough rain. And sometimes it takes losing things, like power, for me to pause and remember just how blessed I am.