Rain on My Roof

Rain falling onto a tin roof. It is the only sound i can hear. Thousands of drops of the most precious liquid to be found on the earth, flung from the heavens, their descent temporarily interrupted by sheets of inclined colorbond down which they slide, before falling, falling again until, with a dull thud, they are consumed by a hungry earth.

I am on the verandah of a rambling farmhouse with neither neighbour nor another building in sight nor earshot. The crickets and frogs have fallen silent. The family are all inside. It’s just me.

The rain becomes to me a sign of grace. I do nothing to make the rain fall. It is simply part of an amazing system gifted by my Creator. It enables grass to grow, flowers to bloom, dams to fill. Without it everything dies. With it we have the opportunity to flourish.

I am an activist. So I want to extend the reflection, to think on ways we are changing the world’s weather patterns, the ways we hoard God’s good gifts so that millions are without clean drinking water. But I stop myself from going there. There will be plenty of time for that tomorrow. For now I simply want to be thankful for this incredible gift falling from the heavens onto the tin roof above my head, then descending with a gentle thud onto a thirsty earth.

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