The First Rain of the Dry Season.

New rain. 

Fresh rain. 

The thunder has been rumbling for days now. 

The skies dark with heavy clouds. 

Today it came. 

A month early. 

It started with the smell of stirring dirt flowing through the window. 

And then the thunder cleared its throat. 

The drops started slowly falling on the tin roof. 

And became a huge downpour.

I ran out the door and into the huge drops that were falling. 

The smell of the rain colliding with the dust wafted into the air.  

I watched friends run up the hills from the their gardens, trying get out of the downpour while I just stood and enjoyed the fresh water on my skin. 

The dogs were curled up on the porch avoiding the cold as best they could. 

The wind came and the drops began to fall sideways. 

Smacking into to the side of anything in their path. 

Everything feels more alive when the rains come. 

As if the life which has been hiding beneath the dryness, comes awake with the splash of water. 

The brown grass looks deeper in color, almost red. 

And the trees are vivid.

The rain washes off every layer of dust. 

It continues to pound on the roof and the dry earth.

Awakening every root and leaf. 

The trees shift back and forth in the wind, the leaves are trembling.

One falls, it shall soon lose its green color and take up the brown color which the parched grass upon which it now lays exhibits. 

The raindrops fall rapidly from the edge of the tin roof, and never at the same time so that it looks as if they will never stop. 

In the distance the clouds are bright and pink, but directly overhead, they are depressing: dark and grey. 

A cool breeze flows onto the porch. 

And the downpour quickly lessons until it becomes just a sprinkle. 

The thunder still booms. 

A rooster crows. 

Voicing his belief that the rain is finished. 

But he is wrong. 

The rain returns and the tin roof thunders again.

The distant hills become veiled.

The strong rain blurring the vision of the distance. 

The smell of wet earth returns. 

The smell of the first rain of the dry season. 

Brookie's House.

As we walk along the path the moon shines its big, bright face on us. 

We chat and laugh as we make our way through the chilly night towards the light that shines above the door.

Someone calls from ahead to watch out for siafu. 

Knowing the painful bite of pinching ants, the rest of us following jump over the black line of insects. 

The peach tree hangs its low boughs over the small porch, and little fruits dangle.

The big wooden door creaks open and we step into the house. 

The stone fireplace dominates the right corner. 

The kitty sprawls on the chair. 

The piano is front and centre, ready for use. 

I hand out the black and blue books and remember all the times these books have been held by fellow missionaries. 

Brookie sits down and her fingers magically run across the keys. 

In the dim light my eyes wander over the pages of songs we have sung for years. 

Together, in the same dim light. 

I remember Brookie's voice since I was little. 

Always wondering how she managed to sing so well. 

I remember Field Meeting days, when we used to gather in groups of twenty. 

I remember sitting in the group of little people. 

We'd shout out our favorites before the adults even had a chance. 

And Brookie would always listen to our requests. 

And I remember learning new songs with visiting faces. 

And crazy loud worship nights. 

I remember the crackling fire on freezing nights. 

And the guitar strum. 

I remember times when many voices joined together, when there was not enough room to sit. 

I remember Brookie's chai tray and Aunt Lynn's desserts. 

I remember sermons and prayer time. 

I remember Luka's fantastic deep voice. 

Back to the present and our little group of five is bonding. 

We laugh and share stories between songs. 

Between songs of the olden days. 

As we step out of Brookie's house into the darkness, our hearts are full. 

Hurry up and come home Brookie! :)