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A Season of Drought

Every year towards the end of summer in the town where I live, the rain stops and a drought sets in. It dries up the plants, it dries up the ground, and it dries up me. The air is heavy and humid, the cicadas make a lot of noise, the wind is stale, the plants wither up, and no rain falls. Every year this happens, and every year I would love nothing better than for the sky to cloud over, the sun to go out, loud thunder to rumble, bright lightning to flash, and heavy rain to pelt our roof, walls, and windows, and especially the dry earth. Every year I look out the window daily, hoping for this to happen, and it doesn't. The little drought runs its course, the chillier weather comes, the rain comes back and the earth is fine again, but a big, booming storm doesn't crash in to save everything from withering when I most want it. 
There comes a time--or more than one time--in everybody's life like a Pennsylvania August--dry, but dry in the worst way possible. Boring and unpleasant and soul-withering. Stagnant. You're going nowhere and there's not much you can do about it. In those times, the natural thing is to wish for God to come in like a thunderstorm and make everything better. But sometimes... He doesn't. He is there to support and help, but he doesn't end the drought or take away the pain. He lets it go on.
Every year at the end of the summer in the town where I live, the weather becomes chilly, cool rain starts to fall, the sky turns electric blue, and the trees flame orange, gold and red. And so it goes in life, too. Sometimes God allows a season of drought to continue; but when it ends, life is all the more beautiful for it.  
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