Dust, fine and red, coated plants lining our roads. Sweat beaded on my upper lip. Cooking in the warm afternoons in my kitchen, with my hair twisted off my neck, I’d been praying, coaxing the weather. C’mon, rainy season. Far more than for our family, I feared for local farmers and those who subsequently starved.

It paralleled my parched insides. So many tasks to which I put my hand seemed to droop, languishing and limp. Parenting, ministry, career, and relationships seemed wilting. Funny how failure stirs up clouds of questions in the soul.

What am I doing here? Why am I doing this? Does any of what I do matter? 

A friend had recently mentioned how, when we trust God in the dark, it’s amazing how so many things begin to happen.

Honestly? I was thinking, what about the times when you trust big, and nothing big happens? What about when everything feels sluggish, fruitless, and cracked?

In faith of the rainy season, my ten-year-old and I transplanted a purple, spiky, unidentified shrub. He gleefully dumped black soil in the gaping mouth of the pot; gently nestled the plant in place; watered. I love the metaphor in these grubby, earthy actions: I planted, Apollos watered, but God made it grow.

It wasn’t lost on me. No matter how carefully my son tends his garden, growth is ultimately out of his hands. Even in the cross and the resurrection, Friday and Saturday had their day—days which must have seemed to stretch forever.

I wonder: What if we redefine success to mean “faithfulness”? The “fruit”, in God’s eyes, generates long before what we see. 

A few mornings later, I stirred in early hours to a rushing sound outside of my flung-open windows. And yes! The sunrise was grayed by pouring rain, sluicing down the sidewalk. I pulled sheets taut around my shoulders. 

And that day, grinning and bubbling over, I addressed a new class at the refugee center. Somewhere, amidst the raised hands and laughter, I thought, I can’t believe I get to do this job. I felt the term’s potential ripening in my hands, sweet and red.